


Dreaming My Dreams

by SaraDobieBauer



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Armie Hammer - Freeform, Armie's POV, Charmie, Dream Sex, Firsts, Fluff and Angst, Jealous Armie, Love at First Sight, Luca is bad but good, M/M, OMG Tim is just so beautiful, Open Marriage, Pining, RPF, Slow Burn, Timothee Chalamet - Freeform, Timothee Worship, We love Liz okay, threesome but just a little tiny bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-01 17:41:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 19,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14525859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaraDobieBauer/pseuds/SaraDobieBauer
Summary: The press tour has just started for Call Me By Your Name, and Armie is annoyingly (accidentally) in love with his young costar. He looks back on Crema and how this whole mess started while navigating ever-escalating dreams about his darling Tim.





	1. Come Back

**Author's Note:**

> What have I done?! I've been a Johnlock psycho for years, and then, CMBYN happened and I can't get Charmie out of my head. (It's not like the boys haven't given us plenty to work with.) No idea where this is going, but let's roll ...

Something about Armie’s bed feels distinctly wrong. He rolls over, reaches his arms out. Empty. Where’s Tim? That’s what feels wrong. Tim isn’t there. He rolls back over, eyes half-glued shut with sleep, and sees his darling’s profile by the window. Lit blue by early morning light, Tim might as well be a marble statue.

 “Hey. What are you doing?” Armie asks.

Tim’s face disappears in shadow when he turns away from the rising sun. “Hm? Nothing.”

 “Why aren’t you in bed?”

He moves in and out of focus. One second, his hair is short like in Crema. The next, it’s longer, curled, tickling the back of his neck.

Armie blinks. “Come back,” he says.

Tim’s face is still in shadow, but he tilts his head just enough for Armie to make out the cliff-edge of his cheekbone. “Miss me?”

“Always.” Armie lifts his arm and extends his hand in the air, beckoning Tim ever closer.

After a moment of silent, punctuated not even by the sound of their breath, Tim ambles closer. His feet make no sound. When he’s near enough, Armie grabs his hand—so much smaller than his own—and tugs until Tim laughs and sprawls on top of him. Armie rolls onto his back and then his side, flipping Tim over in a wave of giggles and the familiar summer-sweet scent of his skin. He buries his face in Tim’s neck, cooler than usual, and sucks on his collarbone.

When Armie’s hand reaches for Tim’s nape, his hair does that thing again—long, short, long, short—but always soft. His other hand paws at Tim’s hip. He can fit his palm around it until his fingers almost tickle spine. While he peppers kisses all over Tim’s chest, he hears a voice, far away, calling his name.

It’s Tim’s voice. Why does the silky resonance, tinged with a touch of New York, sound like it’s floating through water? Why does Armie feel like he himself is underwater? No matter. He has his beloved beneath him; there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. His hands reach down and cup Tim’s ass.

The voice gets louder.

“Armie.”

Louder.

“Armie! Dude!”

He wakes with a start to find a disheveled, panicked-looking Timothee Chalamet pinned beneath him in a foreign bed. He’s fully dressed in a dark sweater and skinny jeans. His hair, long, is a mess of curls, presumably because Armie—in a deep sleep stupor—has been tugging at it. He’s breathless, red in the face, shoving at Armie’s shoulders.

“What the fuck?” Armie sputters.

“I think you were dreaming. I came to wake you up. You wrestled me into bed, and …” If possible, Tim’s pale cheeks turn redder, but he looks like he’s trying to smile, trying to laugh it off.

“Shit. Jesus.” Armie sits up, hotel sheets tangled around his waist, which is good considering he’s hard as a rock. “I’m …” Sorry? He shakes his head. “Shit.”

Tim leans up on his elbows. “No worries, man. You probably just thought I was Liz.”

Armie takes a deep breath and realizes his hands are shaking.

“Um, so the junket starts in an hour. Thought you might want to get breakfast or something?” Tim sits up and pulls at the neck of his sweater. He makes no move to leave the bed.

Junket. Right, they’re in Los Angeles, aren’t they? Not in Crema, no, which would explain why Tim’s hair is so long and … sexy, honestly. During the months they spent apart, Tim grew his hair out for _Lady Bird_. Armie’s knees turned to Jell-O when they saw each other again because even though Tim had always been beautiful—shockingly so—he’d never looked so fuckable. It had taken all Armie’s resolve to not kidnap him to the nearest closet and rekindle … what? Whatever weird shit they’d had in Crema, he supposed.

And it had been weird. Brilliant but weird. Armie knew what lust felt like; he knew love, too. With Tim, he’d never been so confused about the delineation. They’d spent hours upon hours kissing, touching on camera, but that didn’t explain the nights spent cuddled together, talking and laughing. Then, poof, it was over—back to LA and marriage and fatherhood with the occasional text and phone call from his Elio.

Now, they’re together again on the _Call Me By Your Name_ press tour, Tim looking like the poster boy for androgynous sex god incarnate.

He does that nervous thing where he tucks his head and bites his bottom lip, which drives Armie just about crazy. “So. Breakfast?”

“Yeah.” He shakes his head as if the physical movement will clear the haze in his brain. “Sorry. Still not quite awake.”

“Do you want me to leave?” He starts to stand, so Armie puts his hand on Tim’s thigh. Even through jeans, Tim’s skin is almost hot to the touch. His legs are so damn skinny, a perfect fit for the palm of his hand—something Armie had noticed quite early on in filming after that first “rehearsal” in the grass.

He often thought about the game Luca had been playing that day. Professionally, he probably just wanted his leading men to be comfortable together. Personally, Armie wondered if Luca had noticed immediately the way Armie stared at Tim. How, from the first day, Armie’s eyes never strayed far from his raven-haired, young costar. Luca’s twisted gift, maybe: _Here, have him. Taste him. Isn’t he lovely, Mr. Hammer?_

“Armie. You’re freaking me out. Are you okay?”

He blows the breath he’s been holding out from his mouth. “Yeah, let me just get dressed.”

Tim laughs lightly. Those all-seeing green eyes dart down and linger on Armie’s lips. “Goose.”

Armie shoves him in the shoulder, and they both smile. Something snaps—the tension, perhaps. Armie bounds out of bed in his boxers and hustles to the bathroom. He tilts the door shut but doesn’t close it and mouths “what the fuck” to his own reflection.

Time for work. He’s a professional, after all.

_No big deal. You’re just in love with a twenty-two-year-old kid._

In moments of quiet, he likes to tell himself it’s not true, but if he’s brutally honest, it happened almost immediately. Pretty much as soon as he walked into that piano lesson, all those months ago …


	2. Someone's Ticklish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honored by all the kudos and comments! I'm so happy to have found this fandom! Will be back with more next week :)

When he first heard about the script, Armie did some research. He read Aciman’s book twice. He knew Luca, obviously. He’d seen all Luca’s movies, but that was because Luca was already a legend in Armie’s mind. When he was ultimately offered the role of Oliver, he agreed immediately with zero hesitation, no matter the “gay romance” status. He’d kissed a guy before, on and off screen. It was really no big deal.

Once Luca decided on some kid named Timothee … uh, something very French, Armie looked him up. _Chalamet._ That was the last name. Armie watched a few clips of his soon-to-be costar before kissing his wife and daughter goodbye and hopping a plane to Italy. Timothee seemed like a good actor, nothing too special. Again, no big deal.

As the older, experienced actor, he wanted his young costar to feel comfortable, so Armie shoved into that piano practice with open arms and a grin.

And almost tripped over his own damn feet.

The guy playing piano? This was not the guy he’d seen on Google—the _child_ he’d seen on Google. Who the fuck was this work of art? Who was this tall, slim, smiling Botticelli angel? Armie did his best to play it cool. He was an actor; he acted. He smiled and picked Timothee up in a hug that lifted his feet off the ground.

He still remembered the sound of Tim laughing against his shoulder that first day.

Once he set his costar back on planet Earth, Tim looked nervous, running a hand through that thick, floppy hair. “Hey, man, great to meet you, but I need to practice. Can we catch up later?”

“Yeah, of course.” Armie smiled his glittery grin and tried not to look like he'd made a big blunder. How had he missed this? How had he not _seen?_

Luca led him to his little apartment and gave him some space to settle in. Immediately, Armie went back online and searched “Timothee Chalamet.” Again, he scrolled through photos, realizing pretty fast that these photos were old. Sure, Tim always had the bedroom eyes and pink pout, but he’d grown. He’d filled out some—and that hair, that voice. The way me moved, somehow confident and nervous at the same time, alternately a baby doe learning to walk mixed with a majestic buck.

Armie wanted to swallow him whole.

***

What made it even worse was that he seriously liked Tim. The first time they sat around alone in Tim’s apartment, the conversation never stopped.

“Just cheese? How can you be in Italy and only have fucking cheese on your pizza?”

Tim shrugged and dug into said cheese-only pizza. “Why mess with perfection?”

Whereas Armie’s apartment was pretty clean due to years as a husband and father—living with Elizabeth made him realize how much of a slob bachelor he’d been—Tim’s looked like a college dorm room with clothes thrown around and old coffee mugs on side tables.

“How do you like Crema so far?” Tim asked.

Armie finished chewing his own slice. He’d ordered a separate pizza of his own with meat and veggies which was pretty much heaven. Was it the ingredients or the company that made it taste so good? “I like it. Small, quiet. Beautiful.”

Tim nodded. “Yeah, I couldn’t sleep at all the first week I got here. It was, like, too quiet, you know?”

“Big Apple guy.”

Tim shrugged in response. “Born and bred.”

“Wait, did you even know how to ride a bicycle before you got here?”

Tim opened his mouth wide and laughed. “Yes! I swear.”

Armie tossed his pizza slice on a plate. “Tell the truth. You had no clue how to ride a bike before your skinny ass got to Italy.”

“I’m surprised you can even manage with your huge, caveman body!”

At Armie’s scandalized expression, Tim almost fell off his chair laughing.

God knows what Armie was thinking—he honestly wishes he could remember—but he tackled Tim, kept him cradled against his chest when they hit the floor. It was the first time Armie realized how small Tim felt in his arms, fragile. On the dusty tile floor, Tim kept giggling, especially when Armie attacked his slim waist.

“Someone’s ticklish.”

“Stop!” Tim shouted. “Desist! Mercy!” He flapped his arms ineffectually until Armie grabbed his wrists. Jesus, he could fit them both in one hand.

“Take it back,” Armie said, huffing breath as he, too, busted up laughing.

“Fine. Not a caveman body. You’re just a giant.” He tittered like a bird. “Dude, stop!”

Armie let go, grinning, and leaned back on his heels. Tim just stayed there on the ground, one hand on his stomach as echoes of laughter made his chest shake. 

_You’re so fucking beautiful._

He almost said it. He actually covered his mouth to keep himself from saying it.

When Tim sat up, a bunch of curls tumbled onto his forehead. He wiped at his eyes. “Oh, my God, I’m going to puke.” He grabbed his pizza and kept eating despite being out of breath—as if nothing had happened.

Shit, _had_ anything happened?

Armie walked back to his own place, surrounded by the humid, hot Italian night. Cicadas buzzed. Somewhere, a woman spoke. Back in the privacy of his own rooms, he stripped down and went to bed, realizing that he smelled Tim on his clothes: a boyish mixture of worn off cologne, cigarette smoke, and citrus. 

That was the first night Armie dreamt of him, and it was innocent enough. Nothing more than Tim sitting on Armie’s favorite couch back in LA, wearing one of Armie’s big hoodies. He practically drowned in the material. In the dream, Armie pressed his face against the center of Tim’s chest. Tim’s skinny arms formed a ghost-like circle around his neck, and Armie licked his way up the side of his throat.

He woke lost, confused, in a strange room in Italy. From somewhere far away, he swore he heard Tim laugh. Or maybe he still dreamed.


	3. I'm Sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for rehearsal!

_Who even has a jawline like that?_

Tim was looking down, reading his script, when Armie realized he’d been staring. He only realized he’d been staring because Luca pointedly cleared his throat before saying, “Let’s go out to the yard. Bring your scripts.” He gestured back and forth between the two men—Luca was always gesturing—before he left them alone.

With the buoyant energy of youth, Tim bounced off after their director, and Armie was quick to follow.

Outside, the mid-morning sun poured warmth down his shoulders. The air in Crema felt like the air nowhere else, light with the smell of citrus and yet heavy with humidity. Hot during the day and cool at night.

During the day, Tim was usually warm, but Armie knew he got cold at night, all skin and bones. His young costar was rarely without jeans and an oversized hoodie when they sometimes went out to dinner together or met at Luca’s home.

Not like in that moment. In that moment, Tim was in shorts and a t-shirt, the fabric so worn, Armie could practically see his bare skin.

Luca stopped in the shadow of a tall tree. “Let’s do scene seventy-two.”

Tim flipped pages, and Armie did the same—although Tim stopped flipping first and made a sound sort of like a laugh, quickly cut off. Armie spared him a glance before reading: _Elio and Oliver roll around in the grass, kissing._

Armie cleared his throat and nodded while Luca gestured to the grass. “Scene seventy-two,” he repeated.

“Right.” Armie tossed his script down at the base of the tree and sat down. Older, more experienced, he might as well take the lead. He patted the grass next to him. “Get over here, dude." 

Tim’s script joined Armie’s, and he folded his long limbs down at his side. He smiled and licked his bottom lip before leaning forward and—

They were kissing. Just like that. No big deal. No pretense. Just Tim kissing Armie and Armie kissing Tim, until a single clap of Luca’s hands rudely interrupted them.

“No, no, no,” he said. “With passion. With _feeling_.”

Tim leaned in again, mouth open. He curled one hand in the back of Armie’s hair before climbing onto his lap. Armie’s hands tingled before coming to rest on Tim’s slim hips.

_Well, isn’t this a pleasant fucking surprise?_

They’d known each other for less than a week, but Armie thought he knew Tim—sort of. Knew him enough to know he was self-effacing and almost shy. Based on early intermingling of cast and crew, Armie knew Tim made friends often and easily, but it wasn’t because of his confidence; it was because he was adorable and awkwardly funny. Did it help that he was goddamn gorgeous? Indeed, but Tim didn’t seem to know that about himself. He didn’t seem to notice how Esther and Victoire liked to touch him more than strictly necessary or how the male waiter at that one restaurant couldn’t take his eyes off him. Tim was accidentally sexual.

Licking his way into Armie’s mouth, though? That didn’t feel very accidental at all. And Tim could _kiss._ Where did a nineteen-year-old learn how to kiss like _that?_ God, he tasted good. With the preponderance of citrus nearby, the addition of Tim’s sweet tongue made Armie think of Dreamcicles.

_You want passion, Luca?_ Armie turned them onto their sides so he could keep kissing—yes, please, keep kissing—but also feel the spindly length of Tim’s warm body. He even snuck one hand up the back of Tim’s shirt against sweaty, soft skin.

With some level of panic, Armie realized he was suddenly hard, but his own embarrassment was interrupted by the poke of something hot and urgent against his hip. As though burned, Tim winced and pulled away. He rested flat on his stomach in the grass, face buried in his folded arms. 

Luca, the bastard, was nowhere to be seen.

“I’m sorry,” Tim muttered.

“It’s okay.”

He lifted his head enough to rub his lips against his forearm, never once looking at Armie. “No, it’s really not.”

What was Armie supposed to do? Was he supposed to tell Tim he was similarly affected, or would that just make things weird? He hated the way Tim’s whole face burned red, though—hated the wrinkled brow and frown and how Tim looked almost like he wanted to cry.

“Hey, man, can you just give me a minute?” Tim asked.

“Sure. Yeah.” Armie wasted a smile, considering his costar still wasn’t making eye contact. His own excited state mostly under control, Armie stood and brushed the grass from his pants before grabbing his script and giving Tim his requested space.

*** 

Armie sat in a folding chair near the pool, near “Heaven,” with his script and his thoughts. He considered Oliver. How quickly had the character realized he was in trouble? It couldn’t have been the first meeting with Elio—or could it? Armie himself had felt an immediate pull to Tim the second he’d interrupted that piano lesson. Maybe Oliver, too, had leaned forward to shake young Elio’s hand and thought, “Wow, I am totally fucked.”

But it was ultimately doomed. In the film, Oliver was only in Italy for six weeks. Elio was only seventeen. Oliver had a life far away, an adult life, whereas precocious Elio Perlman was an unfettered force of nature with no clear intention or destination.

What made Oliver partake in something that was so obviously doomed? What made anyone dive headfirst into heartbreak? Maybe Oliver didn’t know how much he would come to love Elio. Maybe Oliver just wanted a fast fuck. But no, that wasn’t true; the Oliver that Armie had built up in his head wasn’t like that at all. The Oliver in Armie’s head adored Elio—mind, body, and soul.

But again, why? Why, why, why would a person so willingly invite pain? In the script, Mr. Perlman claims the pain is worth it in exchange for the pleasure felt. A few precious moments of euphoria as trade for what might be a lifetime of regret. A lifetime spent feeling half-whole, missing that one person who changed everything. He rested his head back and worried he did not understand Oliver at all.

So distracted by his own thoughts, he didn’t even notice Tim standing there, watching him. No longer hunched over with embarrassment, he made his way closer with silent steps. Armie didn’t remember the sun going down, but it was dark around them—so dark he couldn’t make out the expression on Tim’s face as he tossed Armie’s script away and again climbed onto his lap, now a familiar weight. 

Immediately, Armie tilted his head back, expecting a kiss, but Tim nosed at the side of his throat instead. “Were you thinking of me?” he whispered.

Armie couldn’t remember, but he said yes anyway. He slipped his hands into the back of Tim’s pants, down his small ass, and squeezed. Tim made the most delicious little sound as Armie pressed his hips up. Unlike at their rehearsal, he wanted to be very clear how _affected_ he was this time. He really wanted Tim’s mouth—God, that fucking gorgeous mouth—so why couldn’t he reach it?

“Do you want to fuck me, Armie?”

His hungry moan sounded a lot like Tim’s name.

He almost fell out of his chair at the sound of crunching grass nearby. Armie’s eyes popped open. Around him, the light glowed pink with sunset, and Tim stood there in his usual jeans and hoodie, chewing the hell out of his bottom lip.

“Uh, sorry,” he said. “We’re supposed to have dinner at Luca’s tonight?”

Armie sat up suddenly as fantasy and reality fought to rectify their dueling attendance. Tim had been in his dream, and Tim was here. Armie wanted Tim in his dream, and Armie wanted Tim now, now, now …

He remained sitting and carefully kept his script in his lap. “I can’t believe I fell asleep.”

“It’s something about this place,” Tim said. “It feels so safe.” He blinked those huge green eyes as though surprised at the sound of his own voice before turning to walk away.

Armie hurried after him. “Tim! Hey, wait.”

When he took hold of Tim’s arm, his costar sighed and turned back around. “Look, I’m seriously sorry about today. I feel like an idiot. I don’t want things to be weird between us, and it won’t happen again. I promise.”

Armie shook his head. “Tim. Man, I was hard, too, okay?”

His eyes looked like they might bug out of his head. “What? Really?”

Armie searched the sky for answers. With no divine intervention forthcoming, he soldiered on. “We’re going to be really close for the duration of filming. As in, like, naked together. Madly in love with each other.”

Tim itched his nose and looked away.

“I want you to be comfortable with me, completely. So what if our bodies reacted today? We’re dudes. Shit happens, especially when we’re making out and rubbing all over each other. I don’t want you to pull away. I don’t want any distance. If you want to touch me, touch me. Kiss me whenever. Need a cuddle?” Armie pointed at himself. “I’m here. I feel … I think this script, this story, is really important, and I don’t want to fuck it up by being in my head or worrying what other people think. I don’t want you worrying either. Let’s do this. Let’s be all in.” He held his hand out and waited.

Eventually, Tim clasped hands with him, and Armie pulled him into a hug. With his face against the side of Tim’s neck, he said, “Did you know you taste like a Dreamcicle?”

“What the hell is a Dreamcicle?”

Armie laughed, never once considering he—not Oliver—was the one now ultimately doomed.


	4. You're Delusional

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim stood on Armie's feet. TIM STOOD ON ARMIE'S FEET.

The hot day was made hotter thanks to Tim’s solid weight balanced on the tops of Armie’s feet. Minutes earlier, he’d complained the ground was burning his toes, so Armie suggested he climb on. Armie’s arms were now wrapped around Tim’s shoulders—Tim’s arms around Armie’s waist. Waiting for the crew to set up inside the villa, they stood in silence until Tim whacked his forehead against the center of Armie’s chest and scooted his feet around so much, Armie almost dropped him.

“Stop fidgeting.” 

Tim groaned and fidgeted some more.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?”

Tim spoke with his face buried against Armie’s chest. Armie could feel the wet warmth of it. “I’m nervous.”

“About what?”

“The piano. I know I’m going to fuck it up.”

Armie hugged him tighter. “Please. You’re the most talented person here.”

“You’re delusional.”

Armie leaned his upper body back. “Hey, look at me.”

Tim made a sad pouty whine but did eventually make eye contact. Up close, Armie could see the tiny freckles across the bridge of his nose and the way his eyes weren’t just green but a hundred greens mixed with a dusting of gold.

“You’ve been practicing for weeks. You know the music. I know you do.”

“But—”

“You’ll be perfect.” He kissed Tim’s forehead. Ever since they’d agreed to hold nothing back—Armie liked to tell himself it was “for art’s sake”—they’d found an innocent intimacy that might have been alarming in its swiftness if not for Tim’s enthusiasm.

The morning after Armie had given his impromptu speech by Heaven, Tim had woken him by jumping on his bed, bearing two steaming espressos in travel mugs. When they sat together at meals, he would curl his ankles around Armie’s under the table. If they went swimming, Tim rode on Armie’s back.

Discounting his wife, Armie had never known another person’s body as well as he knew Tim’s—shocking considering they’d never had sex. He knew how Tim’s waist felt in the palms of his hands. He knew the weight of Tim’s thighs and how the skin behind his knees felt like expensive silk. Armie could perfectly judge the time of day based solely on the way Tim smelled. In the mornings, he was coffee and cologne. By lunch, he became a pilfered cigarette, citrus, and sweat. At night, he was vanilla and wine.

“Timmy! _Andiamo._ We’ll warm up your fingers.”

They both looked toward the house, and Tim sighed at the sight of his piano teacher.

He begrudgingly climbed off Armie’s feet and turned to walk away—but stopped. “I’m so glad you’re Oliver,” he said.

Armie actually felt a stab of panic at the thought of not playing Oliver, of having never met this rising star, this miracle. Timothee Chalamet. Instead of having a meltdown on set, though, Armie said, “You’re going to win a million awards for this.”

Tim did that nervous thing where he ducked his head, lifted his shoulders, and tried to hide his smile. Then, he gave his baggy jean shorts a tug—the faded things were barely staying up—and ambled away.

Armie jumped at the sound of Luca’s voice: “Do you love him yet?”

_“What?”_

Luca stood at Armie’s side and gestured with his chin to Tim’s retreating back. “In this scene, does Oliver love Elio?” 

Armie wiped the sweat from his forehead. “No. Not love yet. Infatuation.” 

Luca nodded as if Armie had answered correctly. “But will he love Elio soon?”

“Not until the nose bleed.”

Luca tapped the side of his own nose. “Really?”

“It’s then that Oliver realizes he doesn’t only want Elio, but he wants to _take care_ of Elio.”

“Interesting.” He said it in a way that made Armie feel like a child being taunted. “You are beautiful together, you and Timothee.” 

Armie cracked a smile. “Well, congratulate yourself, Luca. You picked us.”

“I knew you would compliment one another. I knew you would understand each other, yes?” He nudged Armie with his elbow. “Although, it does paint a pretty picture. The big, strong movie star with his stunning _piccolo angelo_. _Mio Dio_ , I swear the sweet boy grows more beautiful by the moment.”

_Yeah, no shit, Luca._

*** 

Of course, Tim nailed the piano performance. Nailed the scene. Afterward, he looped his arms around Armie’s shoulders and hung, exhausted but excited. That night, they ordered pizza at Armie’s place—plain cheese for Tim, as usual—and watched a boxing documentary.

They sat side-by-side on the couch, close as possible without actually being in each other’s laps, with all the lights out. The TV cast the room in dancing shades of white, gray, and black.

Tim’s head was resting heavily on Armie’s shoulder when the young man made a noise: a small moan that went right to Armie’s groin.

Armie looked down. Tim was asleep. His dark hair obscured some of his face but not enough to block his parted lips. He made another noise—a resonant whimper that sounded like it’d traveled through layers of satin and smoke to breach the surface.

Armie didn’t dare move, frightened of waking Tim and putting an end to the noises. Armie wanted more noises—and more. Tim could have been having a nightmare, sure, but …

Another moan.

_Not fucking likely._

He even rubbed the side of his face against Armie’s tricep. He leaned his head against the couch, giving Armie a better view of his pale neck, stretched backwards. His breathing went from fast to slow, fast again, as the TV light played against his pale skin.

Armie longed to touch. He wanted to wrap his fingers around the front of Tim’s throat and feel his pulse. He wanted to taste the skin above his collarbone. If he was really honest, he wanted to toss Tim over his shoulder, carry him to bed, and spend hours—days—worshipping every inch, even the sensitive soles of his feet. 

Had Tim ever been with a man before? In the public eye, he was heterosexual, but so was Armie, even though he’d been bisexual his whole life. It was an image thing, not a reality.

Was Tim a virgin? He didn’t kiss like someone lacking in experience. They’d talked about a lot together but never about sex. Armie knew that conversation would get him in trouble, just like Oliver knew.

_We can’t talk about those things._

Like Oliver, he knew that talking about sex with Tim would only give him more choice images for his alone time in the shower. He’d developed quite a few fantasies about Tim already. He even dreamt about him—about fucking and taking and _mine._

On the couch, Tim groaned again, and Armie’s whole body boiled. He had to wake him, had to stop the noises that would now make his dreams all the more real.

“Tim.” He put his hand on his knee and shook. “Dude.”

“Mm?” Tim’s eyes opened and stared up at Armie—but only for a moment. He sighed, rubbed his face against Armie’s shoulder, and hunkered down further into the couch before falling right back asleep. 

Once the documentary ended, Armie was exhausted. Although Tim hadn’t made any additional sounds, his body wrapped around Armie’s in sleep. He thought of waking him, but it was late, so with the ease of someone picking up a bouquet of flowers, Armie lifted Tim and carried him to his bedroom.

As soon as he set Tim down on his sheets, Tim rounded his spine and shivered. Armie moved to grab an extra blanket as Tim reached his hand up. “Armie, ‘m cold.”

“I’ll get a blanket.”

 “No, need you.” 

Jesus, was Tim awake or was he sleep-talking? Whichever it was, Armie listened. He crawled into bed next to Tim and basically covered the young man’s body with his. Tim’s fingers curled into Armie’s shirt, squeezed and released, before he melted quickly back into the safety of slumber.

Armie tried to stay awake as long as possible, enjoying … whatever the hell they were doing. He worried momentarily at Tim’s extreme trust in him. Was Tim this trusting of everyone? Armie hoped not. Tim was to be cherished, protected. 

“Shit,” Armie whispered, his own words coming back to haunt him.

_(Oliver realizes he doesn’t only want Elio, but he wants to_ take care _of Elio.)_

“You're fucked, Hammer,” he said, and in response, a sleeping Tim rubbed his face against the underside of Armie’s jaw like a damn cat.

In the morning, Tim woke Armie by poking him in the forehead. He announced, proudly, “You snore,” before rolling out of bed and to the bathroom. Armie realized he hadn’t dreamt at all.


	5. Sweetie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liz comes to visit ...

Armie tried not to fall over backwards on the third take. They’d been really working the sexual tension in the scene already. Tim had been perfect at Monet’s Berm in that frigid water. He’d showcased an uncanny mix of innocence and teasing sensuality, especially when he’d playfully jumped on Armie’s (Oliver’s?) back. For a second, it had felt like just another silly wrestling match back at Tim ‘s apartment.

Then, they’d moved to the grass and set up for the first kiss. After two practically perfect takes, Tim just went for it. He licked Armie’s face, and Armie’s vision went white. It took all Armie’s resolve— _all of it_ —to not latch onto the back of Tim’s head and lick into his mouth. Maybe pin him to the grass, arms over his head, and get him off with the thrust of his hips alone. Tim had started this shit; Armie would finish it.

But nope, nope, they were filming, and the first kiss between Elio and Oliver was supposed to be chaste but hungry. Desperate but subdued. And it stopped as soon as it began.

Luca called “cut,” and Tim grabbed Armie’s wrist with the hand that had seconds ago been pressed to his package, which, by some miracle, had not turned to stone after that damn face lick.

“Was that okay?” Tim asked, nervous. “I just thought … I didn’t mean … It seemed …” He lifted his shoulders, searching for words. 

“It was fine. It was unexpected but fine. Very Elio." 

“ _Bellissimo_ , Timothee,” Luca interrupted. “That was the take. That was it. _Brilliante, mio_ _piccolo angelo_.” The excited director lifted his hands to the sky for one moment before ducking down and kissing Tim on the head.

Tim hunched over a little, face beet red.

Armie nudged him with his elbow. “ _Bellissimo_.”

He buried his face in his hands and spoke through parted fingers. “I can’t believe I licked your face.”

Armie chuckled. “What can I say? I’m irresistible.”

“And so modest,” Tim muttered.

Armie put him in a headlock, and Tim flailed his arms fruitlessly. The sound of his wide-mouthed giggle echoed down the hill and back again. Meanwhile, Armie’s mouth tasted like oranges and cream.

***

Liz always smelled so good. It was like her very skin gave off the scent of clean linen with a touch of vanilla as though she’d brought the bakery with her. Armie hugged his wife and pressed his face into her hair. “I missed you,” he said.

“Missed you more, Hammer.” She’d only just arrived—a weekend visit far from their home an ocean away. Their daughter, Harper, was already running circles around the villa, charming the cast and crew.

Speaking of the cast … 

“Armie’s wife!” Tim’s excited voice rose above the general ruckus. He ambled toward them in jeans and a pink button down—his costume for a day of scenes with Esther. His dark hair was its usual artful mess, and the grin he wore looked like it might split his handsome face in two. He opened his arms, and Liz stepped into his embrace. 

“You must be Tim,” she said against his shoulder. They were almost the same height.

As soon as they pulled away, Tim shoved hair behind his ears. His curls were too short to stay, so the tic was pretty much useless. “Oh, my God, you’re beautiful.”

Liz grinned. “So are you!” 

He laughed, showing his teeth. “Have you been to Italy before?”

“Well.” She gestured to their surroundings. “Not like this. I just got here, and I already don’t want to leave. It feels magical.”

Tim nodded. “Narnia and shit. Through the wardrobe.”

Liz smiled like she really, really meant it as Armie just stood there, watching Tim effortlessly charm the hell out of his wife. Armie knew Liz had a weakness for pretty boys, and if Tim was anything, he was definitely pretty.

“Timothee,” Luca yelled from a tree-shaded path. “ _Andiamo_!”

Tim waved and nodded before starting to walk backwards away from Armie and Liz. “I have to, like, work, but we’re all having dinner at Luca’s tonight, right?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Armie confirmed.

“Perfect. Liz, you have to tell me every embarrassing story about Armie you know.”

She slung her arm around Armie’s waist. “I don’t think we have that much time, sweetie.” 

“She called me ‘sweetie!’” Tim gave a little hop before spinning around and walking toward Luca.

Liz put her hand on Armie’s chest. “Holy fuck, he’s adorable. I want to carry him around in my pocket!”

Armie could relate.

He and Liz wandered the streets of Crema and bought espresso. As they walked, Harper climbed all over Armie’s shoulders. The kid had obviously missed her daddy. It took Armie a little while to notice it, but every single story he told started with, “Tim and I …” He tried to downplay it, but Liz didn’t seem annoyed. Instead, she just listened fondly with her hand in his.

Later in the afternoon, they watched a bit of filming—Elio and Marzia stuff. Good friends, Tim and Esther had an easy, conversational chemistry. It didn’t hurt that they were around the same age and both, well … 

“He is truly gorgeous,” Liz whispered. “How old is he?”

“Nineteen." 

“Jesus. He seems so much older. He’s the perfect Elio.” Liz was a huge fan of the book, so that was a hell of a compliment. Her next question made Armie almost choke on his own spit. “What’s it like to kiss him?”

“Liz.” He rolled his eyes.

“What? I want to know.” She leaned close so her lips tickled his ear. “I bet he just melts under your hands.”

Armie tilted his head. “You’d be surprised.” 

“Really?” The high-pitched lilt of her voice only foretold further mischief. “Is the great Armie Hammer a desperate puddle of lust?”

“I’ll show you a puddle of lust.” He scooped her up in his arms and carried her bridal style, away from the cameras and crew. Away from Tim.

***

Armie was half comatose following a massive dinner at Luca’s. He’d been talking with Michael, who played Mr. Perlman, when he first noticed both his wife and his young costar were notably missing from Luca’s cozy living room. He made his apologies to Michael before going on a search.

He should have figured they’d be on the back porch, splitting a cigarette. After all, the night was hazy but warm. The air felt like a comfortable blanket and smelled of citrus. He resolutely did not think about Tim’s mouth. Or actually he did, which was ridiculous considering the afternoon of sex he’d just had with his amazing wife. 

Outside, Tim and Liz shared a chaise lounge, even though there were others available. Both stretched out, Liz practically sprawled across Tim’s lanky frame as she talked with her hands. Tim drank red wine straight from a bottle.

“He told me he was my destiny. My _destiny_ ,” she said, handing her cigarette back to Tim. “He said I had to break up with that other loser and spend my life with him, and I fucking did.”

Tim noticed Armie first. He smiled and said, “Cocky bastard.”

Armie shrugged. “I just know what I want.”

“Hammer!” Liz shrieked. She latched onto the front of Tim’s red hoodie and almost made him drop the wine. Tim giggled silently. God, they were both wasted. “Hammer, I love him. I’m keeping him forever. He’ll live in the guest room on the second floor. The nice one that overlooks the pool. Tim, sweetie, you’re living with us forever.”

Tim just kept laughing as Armie sat on the very edge of their crowded chaise and squeezed Tim’s knee and then Liz’s. “It might be time to get you crazy kids home.”

They both groaned in protest.

“Tim, you have to work tomorrow, dude.” Armie had the day off. 

“Oh, yeah.” He peeled the wine label. “I get laid tomorrow. Or, like, Elio does.” He snorted.

Armie had the sudden idiot urge to keep Esther as far away from Tim as possible. His fingers actually tingled at the thought of her kissing him, touching him. Shit, maybe Armie had had too much to drink, as well. He looked up to find Liz watching, a sneaky smile on her face.

“Come on. Up!”

Liz started to acquiesce, but Tim just shook his head. “You can’t make me.” 

“Yes, darling, he can,” Liz said. She grabbed the wine bottle from Tim’s hand just in time for Armie to scoop his costar up and throw him over his shoulder.

Tim made a startled yelp. “Holy shit, Armie, don’t drop me!”

“I would never.” He walked into Luca’s living room, mostly empty at that hour, and gestured to the bag of bones of his shoulder. “His highness needs to go home.”

“His highness? Come on, man.” Tim jabbed his elbows into Armie’s upper back.

“I’ll go with,” Esther said, standing from the couch.

Again, Armie felt totally irrational. He just barely avoided snapping at the young woman—as if he deserved any say in who got close to Tim. As they said their goodbyes, a giggling Tim still on his shoulder, Armie repeated _not mine, not mine, not mine_.

Outside, he put a woozy Tim on the cobblestones. Esther wrapped her arm around his shoulder, and they started walking together. She said something that made Tim laugh.

“Into the night,” Liz said, her hand on Armie’s waist.

He nodded and clenched his jaw.

The walk was short and easy since everything in Crema felt close, the small city a web of interconnected streets and gravel paths. Esther took a detour to her place after a couple minutes, waving to everyone and even giving Tim a quick kiss on the cheek before shadows swallowed her whole.

Near the stairway up to Tim’s place, they all stopped and shared hugs. In the golden streetlight, the angular edges of Tim’s face seemed all the more chiseled. He’d never looked more like a marble statue. They agreed to meet for coffee the following morning.

Back at Armie’s, Liz fell onto the bed face-first. Armie checked in with Harper and the nanny—a nice neighborhood lady Luca had hired. By the time he returned to the bedroom, Liz snored softly. Armie, still very much awake, rested beside her on his back and stared at the ceiling.

***

It had to be almost morning as Armie walked to Tim’s place. The light was strangely pink, purple, orange, alternating shades of color like a weeping watercolor. He didn’t realize he was naked until he started climbing familiar stairs.

Of course, Tim’s door was unlocked. Tim was waiting for him. Inside the messy apartment, the colors shifted and changed to shades of green and blue as though Armie floated through water.

The door to Tim’s bedroom made no sound when it swung open, and neither did Armie’s feet on the warm tile. Down the center of the bed, wrapped in a white sheet, Tim slept. His head lolled to the side, revealing his pale neck. His bare chest rose and fell, the sheet slung low across his hips.

Armie crawled up the bed, knees bracketing Tim’s body. He kissed the delicate skin on the side of Tim’s throat until Tim whimpered, moaned, and woke. 

“Armie,” he whispered. His fingers dug into Armie’s hair and pulled.

Armie sucked his Adam’s apple. “I want to make you come.”

“Please …”

Armie was fascinated with the image of his huge, tan hand traveling across Tim’s pale chest. His walked his fingers over Tim’s ribs and down the center of his stomach, all the time watching. Armie couldn’t stop watching really. If he only got this once—although he sincerely hoped he could keep Tim forever—he would remember every image, every sound, and even the scent of Tim’s wine-smoke breath.

For a second, Tim went out of focus. He became a pale, writhing shadow with dark hair and pink, parted lips. Then, like a skipping record, Armie missed whatever happened in between but opened his eyes to find himself under the sheet with Tim, rutting against him. Both of Tim’s arms were pinned above his head, held there in one of Armie’s hands. Armie’s traced the shape of Tim’s face as they moved faster, faster, chasing release.

“Tim … fuck.” Armie was so damn close, spurned on by the incoherent moans from the man beneath him. 

Tim said his name—and said it again. Again. But it wasn’t Tim. It was Liz.

Armie shot up in bed, _his bed_ , with his wife next to him. “Jesus, Hammer,” she said. The lamp was still on, and they were both still clothed. He remembered Liz passing out, but Armie had been wide-awake. Hadn’t he?

“Was I dreaming?” Armie felt cold, covered in sweat while wind blew in from the open window.

Liz brushed his hair with her fingers. “Let me get us some water. I think we should talk.”

His mouth did feel cotton dry. He had been dreaming. Maybe? He couldn’t remember exactly. He thought maybe Tim had been in his dream? Something about walking through water. Something about …

He covered his mouth with his hand. _Oh, shit._

Liz walked on her knees across the bed and handed him a big glass of water. “Drink that.”

He did, saving her half.

She finished it and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She shoved at the pillows until they made a cozy pile at the top of his bed. “Come here.” She opened her arms, and he gratefully rested against her breast. “Mr. Hammer. I do believe you’ve got a problem.”

He closed his eyes.

“How long have you been having sexy-sex dreams about this kid?”

“Fuck, Liz.”

“I’m not mad,” she said.

“I know that.”

“How long?” 

He sighed against her chest. “I don’t know. Since day one?”

“Does he have any idea?”

“Of course not.”

She tickled the side of his face with her fingertips. “Hmm. Well, I say you go for it.”

His head popped up like a Jack-in-the-Box. “What!”

“Kiss him. Touch him. Have him. It’s what we do.”

He sat up and stared at his wife. “Liz, he’s straight.” 

“Probably as straight as you are.” She winked. “Look, if anyone in this stupid world deserves to have that beautiful, brilliant creature, it’s my husband. And Tim is obviously crazy about you.”

Armie shook his head. “He’s so young, Liz.”

She shrugged. “He’s a very old soul. Like Elio.” 

“Yeah, but look what happened to Elio and Oliver.”

“They shared an idyllic summer and a great love?” 

He squeezed Liz’s hand. “And Elio never recovered.”

She pulled him close, back into her arms. “Oh, Armand. I’ll leave it up to you. Whatever happens, I’m okay with it, all right? You’re the love of my life, but I don’t mind sharing with Luca’s little angel. Who even has green eyes like that?” 

Armie chuckled and rubbed his cheek against her chest.

She continued, “I think Luca was very lucky to find him.” She paused. “And pretty soon, the world will find him, too.”

Armie squeezed her tightly and tried to hide the way his stomach had turned into a cavern of dread.


	6. Did I Do Something Wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the delay. Had a family emergency and had to travel for the past week. Back in business ... Liz has just left after giving Armie the go-ahead with Tim. But what will Armie do?

After Liz left, Tim changed drastically—and not at all for the better. Whereas Armie had grown accustomed to their flirty playfulness, he now felt like a pariah. Like he maybe disgusted Tim. It didn’t make any sense, although Tim’s change in affections was perfect for the scenes they filmed, scenes with Elio and Marzia where Oliver was mostly in the background.

But midnight. 

Midnight was coming soon, and the unfamiliar coldness from his costar had to thaw before then for the intimate scene to work. Armie couldn’t think of what he’d done wrong, though, and Liz wouldn’t have said anything that would push Tim away. On the contrary, Armie’s wife wanted the boys to be quite close indeed.

The morning before her departure, they’d all gone out for coffee, and she’d practically pet Tim like her own private puppy. Harper, for her part, had adored the young man, too, climbing on his lap and hanging from his shoulders while simultaneously pulling his hair. Armie could still feel the swell of affection in his chest for all of them. Tim was practically part of the family now, so why this?

Why did Tim avoid eye contact on set? Why did Tim not reach out to touch or share fond smiles anymore? What in the hell had Armie done to push away the person he currently wanted most?

After two days of Tim’s cold shoulder, Armie woke in the middle of the night, unable to sleep and even unable to dream. The last dream he remembered had been with Liz at his side, and he embarrassingly had not dreamt of his wife but of desperately rutting against Tim.

Despite the late hour—it was just past 2 AM—he pulled on shorts, a t-shirt, and his running shoes and went out for a jog. He accidentally ended up at Tim’s place. Or not. There was nothing accidental about it.

He wasn’t at all surprised to find Tim in the stairwell smoking. He even imagined the smoke had acted as a siren call. _Come find me, Armie._

“Can’t sleep?”

Tim hugged himself and blew smoke into a pale strip of moonlight. “Guess not.”

Armie ran his hands through his hair, already damp with sweat from his short run. “Tim, what’s going on?”

“Huh?”

“With us. Did I do something wrong?”

Tim, barefoot, toed at the dusty stone steps. “What? No.” He shook his head. “No.” He sucked his cigarette.

“Are you sure?”

Tim, unable to hide the emotions on his face _ever_ , tried to cower in the shadows. He sat on the steps and turned his head profile, but Armie saw the way his expression crumbled.

Quick to comfort, Armie sat at his side and put his arm around Tim’s shoulders. “Hey. What—”

Tim stood abruptly and paced on the sidewalk, smoke following him like a ghost. “Don’t. I …” He shook his head. “You’re married.”

Well, that wasn’t what Armie was expecting. He nodded nonetheless. “Yes.”

“Meeting Liz and Harper, it just …” He flicked his cigarette and scratched the back of his head. “I think I’ve been taking advantage of how nice you are to me.”

“Tim—”

“No, look. Just listen. You said that we should hold nothing back, that we should touch each other when we want and be close like two people in love, but …” He wrapped his skinny arms around himself, and even though Armie wanted to scoop him up in an embrace, he damn sure didn’t. Tim looked either liable to throw punches or start crying at any second. “You’re married, and I’ve been inappropriate, and I’m sorry. I don’t want to fuck up something …” He shook his head, agitated. “This feels good, you know, what we have? This friendship, and I don’t want to fuck it up because I’m too needy. And I don’t want Liz to hate me. And I don’t want the film to suffer because I’m …” He sighed out through his mouth. “Maybe Elio’s getting to me.”

Finally, Armie stood and put his hands on Tim’s shoulders. “Yeah, well, Oliver’s getting to me, too.”

Tim nodded but wouldn’t look at him.

“Nothing needs to change between us, okay? Liz adores you. So do I.”

Tim sputtered out a laugh that quickly turned to a single, quiet sob. He tried to turn away, but Armie held tight and basically forced his young costar into a hug. Tim only shoved against his chest for a second before melting into his embrace, his quiet sniffles the only evidence of his continued emotional turmoil.

No matter that Liz had given her consent—Armie could not do this. He could not take Tim to bed. He’d wondered, what seemed like ages ago, how Oliver could enter into such a doomed relationship with Elio. Standing there with Tim in the middle of the night, he marveled at the selfishness and, at the same time, lack of self preservation required for Oliver to give in to his desire for Elio. 

Selfish because their tryst had to end in heartbreak, which Oliver—older, wiser—had to have known. Lack of self preservation because, even knowing this, Oliver still dove in, fell in love, and shattered himself, possibly for life. All to touch and taste the wild creature that was Elio Perlman.

Now, Armie had Tim in his arms. Delicate, naïve, beautiful Tim. Hopeful, loving Tim who perhaps wasn’t naïve at all because he knew their relationship was edging further and further away from anything "appropriate." He knew enough to pull away and not besmirch Armie’s marriage vows, unaware of Liz and Armie's open arrangement.

But Armie had to let him go—or at least not take things any further. More than willing to doom himself, he would not doom Tim.

With a sadness that he knew would only grow and fester in the final weeks of filming, Armie led Tim back toward the steps. “Come on, dude. You need sleep.”

Tim didn’t fight when Armie took his hand and led.

They curled together in Tim’s bed having previously mapped out—on several occasions by then—how best their bodies fit together: with Armie on his back and Tim sort of sprawled across him. Nothing sexual; just comfortable.

Tim’s fingers tickled the front of Armie’s throat. “Have you ever had this with a costar before?”

“Define _this_.” Armie spoke with his mouth against Tim’s forehead, one of his hands in his hair.

Tim seemed at a loss for words but eventually: “Dunno. Bed sharing, I guess.”

“No. Not until you.”

Again, Tim paused before: “Why me?”

Armie took a long, slow breath. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”

He shifted his body a little closer and threw one leg over Armie’s. “Can we be friends? Forever?”

“BFFs?” Armie tried to lighten the heaviness, but Tim didn’t laugh.

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t remember not knowing you. I look back on my childhood, and you’re there in my memories.” He kissed Tim’s forehead.

“I think I’m scared.”

“Why?” Armie asked. 

“I don’t know. It’s like I’m losing something I never had.”

Armie rolled over and pressed his lips to Tim’s with no thought to consequence. He just wanted to give him something, make him stop being scared or sad or … God, and that was it, wasn’t it? That was why Oliver had given in to Elio’s advances, knowing they were doomed. He loved Elio and wanted to give, give, give him anything and everything. Impossible to resist that need to _give._

Tim clawed at the front of Armie’s shirt as they kissed—not as Elio and Oliver but as themselves. He clawed and whimpered and opened his mouth so Armie could lick inside, sucking, nibbling at his lush lips. When hands started to wander, Tim pulled away first.

“Armie, stop.”

As his fingers trailed down Tim’s ribs, no part of Armie wanted to stop. _Give, give, give … I want to give you the fucking world._

“Armie, we can’t. Stop. Please?” 

Armie pulled back but kept his nose pressed against Tim’s. “I’m sorry. Jesus, sorry.” He wrapped Tim tightly in his embrace, and Tim hugged back, breath panting against Armie’s ear.

“We can’t be like that,” Tim said. 

Armie cradled his skull in the palm of his hand. “No. I know. Sorry.”

“Friends? I don’t want to lose you. Please.” 

Armie nodded against Tim’s shoulder and breathed the smoky sweetness of his skin. “Friends. Always.”

Tim fell asleep in his arms. When Armie woke in the morning—the young man’s head heavy on his chest—he realized he no longer knew when he was awake and when he dreamed.


	7. You're so Beautiful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Midnight has arrived. Who's insecure now?

Armie called Liz that afternoon, because Liz had a way of being practical and making sense of things when Armie just couldn’t. She was his wife, his best friend, his lover, and—in all honesty—his therapist.

Despite the time difference—she was probably in the middle of her workday—she answered on the second ring. “Tell me. Everything.”

He chuckled. “Hello to you, too.”

He heard the clatter of a spoon and the closing of a door. She was at the bakery then. “How was he? Was he perfect? Tell me.”

He sighed and slumped back into the sofa of his rented place, not two blocks from the man his wife asked about. “I can’t do it, Liz.”

“Okay.” It sounded like a question.

“He’s been weird since you left. Pulling away.” Armie rubbed his eyes. “Like he was scared to touch me. Then, last night, I couldn’t sleep, and I found him awake at 2 AM, stewing. Said he felt guilty over the way we’ve been acting, said he didn’t want to hurt you.”

“He’s not …” She paused. “Oh, you didn’t tell him? Tell him I said it was okay.”

“Babe, right now, he’s just a kid with a crush.” Armie stood and paced. “I don’t want it to … I don’t want him to fall in love with me, because once filming is over, I go back to my beautiful wife and kid, and what does he have? A lonely apartment in New York? No. I can’t pull an Oliver. I won’t. I don’t care if you gave it the go-ahead. I’m raising the white flag.”

Liz hummed through the line. “God, you’re good. Do you know that?”

“I care about Tim. He’s just starting out, and he’s brilliant. I don’t want to fuck him up by starting something I can’t finish.”

In a singsong voice that belied its gravity, she said, “And midnight’s coming soon. Guess you’ll get to snatch and grab for that. And I expect gory details.”

He laughed. “God, you make it sound so romantic.”

“Be sure to get your feels in, Hammer, because I’d hate for you to be the one regretting something.”

“And what exactly am I going to regret, Liz?”

Her silence made his shoulders droop. “Not showing him how you feel.”

***

They all had dinner at Luca’s—the full cast and crew—although Luca made everyone leave after espresso. Everyone except Armie and Tim. The two leading men sat shoulder-to-shoulder on Luca’s sofa with Luca balanced on the coffee table in front of them. 

“Tomorrow, we shoot midnight,” he said.

Armie nodded while Tim chewed on the drawstring of his hoodie.

“I will be honest,” Luca said. “It is just another scene. Do not build it up in your minds as anything other than just another scene. You will play your parts, act. My Elio and Oliver.” He gestured to each of them in turn. “Timothee, you will be sensual but playful. Unsure but passionate, yes? You know what you want but not how to get it.”

He chewed more avidly on the drawstring.

“Armie, you will follow Timothee. Play off his physicality. Read each other as I know you can.”

Armie nudged Tim with his elbow, but Tim didn’t look up.

“So far,” Luca continued, “Elio and Oliver have played a child’s game. After midnight, they can no longer hide. They play a game as men. We will show the transition from flirtation to fruition. They _long_ for each other, and they finally give in to that longing.”

At his side, Tim took a deep breath and blew it out loudly through his nose.

“I want you living in the moment tomorrow—living as Elio and Oliver. Nothing will exist outside that room. _Capisce_?”

“ _Si_.” Armie nodded.

_“Mio_ _piccolo angelo?”_

Tim nodded, too.

Luca clapped his hands together once and stood. “ _Bene_! Now, we drink.”

Following a very strong digestif, Tim and Armie said their goodbyes and sauntered out into the summer night. Tim hadn’t said much since their midnight conversation, and Armie couldn’t stand it. He hated when Tim was quiet because Tim was never quiet unless he was upset. They’d cleared the air, hadn’t they? Friends forever, right?

Armie leaned into Tim’s space as they walked, almost knocking the distracted young man over. “Are you drunk?”

Tim scoffed. “No. Just thinking." 

“About what?”

His lips turned up in a smirk. “It’s private.”

“We already did that scene,” Armie said.

They walked down a secluded sidewalk, quiet in Crema due to the late hour.

Tim shrugged. “I’m going to feel insecure tomorrow.”

“What? Why?”

He shrugged some more. “I’m all pale and skinny, and you’re …” He waved his hand at Armie. “You.”

“I believe you once said I had a caveman body.”

Tim rolled his eyes, the petulant ass. “I was kidding. You know you’re a Hollywood dreamboat, and I’m going to be like an awkward skeleton crawling all over you. I’m so strange looking.”

“Where the fuck is this coming from? I’ve never heard you talk like this.”

“I have my moments.” Tim sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and let it go. “Going to school with a bunch of buff dudes who all looked like Ansel …”

“Ansel?”

“Elgort. He’s, well, he got all the good parts in high school. Now, he’s getting all the good parts in Hollywood, too. I was always secondary since I look like a freaking _girl_.”

“Tim. Hey.” Armie stopped walking and stopped Tim, too, grabbing onto his shoulders. “Dude. I’m going to say something, and it’s not to embarrass you or placate you. I’m just being honest, okay?”

Tim stared up at him from beneath his thick eyebrows, dark lashes casting shadows over chiseled cheeks. His parted lips might as well have been rose petals in the dark. And there it was again, the recurrent thought: _You’re so beautiful._

So he said it: “You’re so beautiful.”

Tim shook his head and tried to keep walking, but Armie kept him trapped.

“Tim. Look at me. I’m serious. Everyone thinks you’re beautiful. Luca, Liz, Esther … we’re all fucking in love with you, man.”

Tim barked out an incredulous laugh.

“Soon, you’re going to have rabid fans drooling over you.”

“That … is ridiculous.” He shoved Armie away, but at least he was smiling as they continued to walk.

Armie hoped he’d gotten through a little, chipped away at the lack of self worth Tim hid so well. The smile wasn’t enough, though. He wanted to make Tim laugh. “I have an idea. Let’s go rehearse for awhile.” They were friends. They could joke, right? “I’ll _rehearse_ all over the place and show you how fucking gorgeous you are.”

Tim snorted and started walking backwards, facing Armie. “Rehearse? God, for the rest of my life, I’m going to say ‘rehearse’ and just think ‘sex.’”

Armie bent forward laughing, hands on his knees. “Oh, shit. Me, too.” 

He perfectly mimicked Armie’s thoughtful delivery: “Liz, let’s go rehearse!”

“Stop,” Armie huffed.

Tim assumed a feminine pitch: “Yes, Armie! Yes!”

Considering all the goofing they’d done together, Tim must have recognized Armie’s about-to-pounce expression, because he turned and took off running. Of course, it was no contest. Armie scooped him up in his arms within five feet. He crushed Tim in his embrace with one arm and tickled him with the other.

Tim cackled, struggling against him. “Damn it, why are you so big?”

“I ate all my vegetables as a kid.”

Tim unsuccessfully tried to escape his grip but soon tired, wilting into a giggling mess. “Okay, I give, I give. Fuck, I don’t know why I even try.”

“Never stop,” Armie said, his mouth against the side of Tim’s neck. “I like the struggle.”

He swore he felt Tim shiver—but maybe not. He let him go, and Tim immediately did his nervous hair thing, shoving pieces behind his ears. He walked on ahead of Armie, silent, and Armie hurried to catch up. 

To break the silence, he said, “Tomorrow is my first sex scene, you know.” 

Tim froze. “Seriously?”

“I’m glad you’re my first.”

Tim blushed. “Oh, my God, _you’re_ drunk.”

Armie laughed easily. It had been a long time since he’d felt so light—which was why his dream that night made no sense.

After giving Tim a hug goodbye on his stoop, Armie had gone home and fallen into a heavy slumber. In his dream, he’d wandered the halls of the Perlman villa, searching for Tim. He couldn’t find him. He searched and searched and couldn’t find Tim. Where was Tim? Where had he gone?

***

Midnight. If Tim felt insecure, he sure as hell didn’t show it. Ever since arriving on set, he’d been prowling, and Armie couldn’t help but watch. Tim wasn’t graceful. He didn’t float on his toes like a dancer. Usually, he walked heal-heavy and sort of bowlegged. Yet, his height and delicate frame imbued an intense sensuality Armie had noticed from day one. Setting that sensuality free for midnight was something Armie apparently had not prepared for. In fact, if anyone felt insecure, it was Armie, because he suddenly realized he was going to get to do exactly what Liz had said: “snatch and grab” the current object of his single-minded lust in front of a bunch of people.

It wasn’t worth denying: Armie wanted to fuck the hell out of his young costar. He wanted to be the real Oliver to his Elio—slowly open him up with his fingers, watch that beautiful face wrinkle with release. He wanted to lick sweat from every inch of Tim’s body. He wanted to know the exact noises the guy made in bed. He wanted …

_Fuck._

He stepped outside for a cigarette as lights were adjusted. He needed to calm the hell down. But, Jesus, how could he, with Tim strutting around set? After last night’s doubts, where had this confidence come from? He knew Tim was a great actor; was this an act? If so, who cared? It was taking all of Armie’s resolve to not grab onto that stupid white t-shirt and drag Tim into a dark corner.

He actually jumped at the sound of his name.

“Hey, _le muvi star_.” Tim smiled from the doorway. “ _Andiamo_.”

As they began filming, Armie remembered Luca’s advice: _Follow Timothee. Play off his physicality._ Tim was an energetic live wire, moving and caressing and climbing all over him. It helped that Armie knew Tim’s body so well. His palms came to rest on all the right places, even when Tim bent his head back so Armie could kiss his throat. Tim was a ragdoll in his embrace. Armie could have done anything—anything—and Tim would have let him. He pretty much forgot the camera was even there until Luca spoke.

“Again. From the beginning.”

They went again. And again. Armie thought he said Tim’s name in one take, but he wasn’t sure. God, who was he? Oliver? Armie? Was there even a difference anymore? He sensed at least a bit of difference between Tim and Elio. Having kissed both, Armie knew Tim was a better kisser than his fictional counterpart. Elio was messier, but Armie would take both. He would take all.

Then he asked, “Does this make you happy?” 

There was something sad in Tim’s expression.

_Does this, Tim? Do I?_  

Once Tim got on his lap, they realized the problem with their heights. Even though Tim was often dwarfed by Armie’s great size, he wasn’t short at all. Therefore, on his lap, Tim couldn’t reach Armie’s mouth.

Ah, light bulb. Of course Tim would figure it out. He said he just needed to thrust his hips a little, curl his spine. Belatedly, Armie realized Tim’s hips didn’t just thrust; they moved in gentle waves against him until— _holy fuck_ —Armie was hard. Really hard. He played it off and kept kissing, his hands on Tim’s face. He kept kissing until he felt something pressing back. They pulled back to look at each other, acknowledging …

Luca called cut, said they had to move the lights a little. Tim didn’t leave Armie’s lap. They sat there, tangled together, as the crew scurried around. No one paid them any mind.

Armie wanted to grab Tim by the ass and throw him back onto the bed. He would take him apart with everyone watching. He didn’t even care, lost in lust. How could he ever be just friends with this person— _just friends_? Stupid, stupid Armie.

When he nosed up the side of Tim’s throat, Tim turned his head away, and Armie looked up to find his green eyes wide, staring outside.

“Are you okay?” Armie whispered.

Tim nodded. “Just another scene.”

“Just another scene.”

In the next take, Armie got to suck Tim’s bare stomach. He got to sprawl on top of him. He got to kiss him with the cameras panned away so they could get the right audio. Luca kept talking about audio, and all Armie could do was kiss and bite at Tim’s willing mouth.

When Luca called cut again, Armie stared down at his costar, who looked absolutely wrecked—hair a mess and lips red. The pale skin around his mouth looked downright destroyed. Armie touched it with his thumb. “Shit, are you—”

“Fine,” Tim said. He smiled but didn’t mean it. Armie recognized Tim’s real smiles.

Behind them, Luca did his usual song and dance. “ _Bellissimo_! How did I get so lucky?” He made kissing noises toward the sky. “Elio! Oliver. Next.” 

He’d never called them by their character names before.

By the time they had to lay together, totally nude, they were at least both calmed down. Armie tried not to look, but … “Jesus, man!” 

Tim jumped at the sound of his voice.

Sure, he'd felt Tim pressed against him before, but _damn._ “For a skinny guy, you’re packing some serious heat!” 

Tim turned tomato red, covered himself, and smiled—for real. Whatever tension they’d developed in the last few hours dissolved in an instant.

It should have been alarming how comfortable Armie felt naked with Tim. Sayombhu, their cinematographer, had some input for Luca. Their appendages were adjusted accordingly until Armie felt like he must be crushing Tim with his thick arm and thigh. With his head on Tim’s shoulder, he asked yet again, “You okay?”

Tim squeezed his arm. “Me okay.”

The big moment came—revealing the movie title: the first time they called each other by their names. Take after take, Tim was perfect. More than perfect. Up close, Armie could read every emotion on his face. Then, they were kissing again. Armie smiled into Tim’s mouth, and when Luca called cut, he wasn’t hard. He was content. He enveloped Tim in a huge, naked hug until Tim started laughing. The crew clapped, and Luca, once again, praised a higher power for the chemistry of Armie and Timothee. Elio and Oliver. Who was who anymore?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you listen closely, I swear Armie says "Tim" in the midnight scene ... More next week xoxo


	8. I've Got You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I have to go upstairs and …” He shrugged. “Have sex with a fruit.”  
> “Oh. I’ll come watch.” He winced. What the fuck, Hammer?

Armie’s bedframe was best for bondage, which would explain why Tim’s wrists were tied to it with thin, black rope. Armie recognized the rope—a favorite set that he reserved for special occasions with Liz. It looked fantastic against Tim’s pale skin and wouldn’t leave marks for the curious makeup team.

But why had Armie brought the rope to Crema? He couldn’t have expected _this,_ his young costar naked on his back with his arms bound above him.

Tim licked his bottom lip and bit down, staring up at Armie. Armie would never gag him, no, not with the way he worked his lips like that, shimmering wet in the moonlight. Or the way his exhales sometimes made noise: light whimpers.

“Armie,” he murmured, head thrown back between his straining triceps. All the muscles in Tim’s arms and chest were taut with tension as he tugged at the ropes that held him captive. Of course, Armie’s thighs held him captive, too, straddled across Tim’s hips as he bent down to lick sweat from his chest.

Armie bit at one nipple—which made Tim jump—and kissed down the center of his stomach. He nibbled at protruding hipbones before lifting one of Tim’s trim thighs and kissing the juncture nearest his groin. 

Above him, Tim tried to sit up but realized it was a futile effort before slouching onto his back with his head lifted, dark eyes watching when Armie took him fully into his mouth: the entire, hot length of him in one hungry swallow.

“Jesus-fuck,” Tim huffed before making a sound like a sob.

Armie pulled off immediately and squeezed Tim’s waist in his hands. “I’ve got you, Tim.” 

He nodded, back to biting those already swollen lips.

Tim’s dick practically burned Armie’s tongue, but there was no way in hell he was going to stop. He went to work with the singular focus of pleasuring the man beneath him. He sort of smiled when he heard the bedframe actually lurch before _thwacking_ into the wall. Tim definitely enjoyed the struggle, hopefully as much as Armie, if their incessant wrestling was anything to go by.

“I’m going to …”

Armie hummed in response and did his best to look up and watch the show.

Tim came with his mouth wide open, eyes squeezed shut. His lower back arched up off the bed, and Armie felt like he’d just sucked the life out of his costar, based on the way he slumped back limply on the bed, face turned and hidden against his arm.

Armie leaned up and sucked the side of Tim’s neck until Tim twitched and moaned. He sucked harder. Maybe makeup would be mad at him after all, but he couldn’t get enough.

“Armie …”

He rubbed his own hardness against Tim’s thigh.

“Armie?”

He blinked awake on a couch in the Perlman’s villa. Late afternoon sun illuminated specks of dust that floated in front of Tim, who stood in the doorway. Armie rubbed his eyes and looked around. Right, he’d decided to take a quick nap. Shit.

Tim was a thing of every fantasy and dream in nothing but swim trunks. “Hey, man, thought I should wake you. I have to go upstairs and …” He shrugged. “Have sex with a fruit.”

“Oh. I’ll come watch.” He winced. _What the fuck, Hammer?_

Tim burst out laughing. His white teeth shined, and his tummy shook. “Jesus, dude.”

Armie giggled—actually _giggled_. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about. Go. Go have sex with fruit. I’ll be here when you need me.”

Tim grabbed his big toe and shook it. “I always need you,” he said before disappearing. The only evidence of his recent presence was the tingle in Armie’s toe and the _slap-slap_ of his bare feet on tile.

It wasn’t long before one of Luca’s assistants came to find him. By then, Armie had escaped his sleep haze but not the lingering image of Tim in rope.

Upstairs, the attic wasn’t as stuffy as Armie had feared thanks to a summer breeze that lifted the curtains in a languid dance. Tim sat up on the mattress on the floor, talking quietly with Luca. He nodded and looked up at Armie’s approach. “Ready?” he said.

“How was the peach?”

Luca tussled Tim’s hair. “ _Perfetto_. Now, _andiamo_. I will not lose the light.”

During the scene, Armie kissed down Tim’s chest. Well, Elio’s chest. And Armie was Oliver, of course. He kissed down Elio’s chest and tasted the sweet-sourness of peach juice. He moved even lower. Armie knew the camera was set up to not show exactly what was going on, but for a split second, he wondered: _Would it be okay if I sucked his cock right now?_

When Tim started crying, clutching to him, Armie’s stomach twisted in terror. It felt too real. Frighteningly real. He held a trembling Tim in his arms and had trouble believing this was an act. Jesus, was the kid okay? They kissed and caressed each other until Tim tumbled into his arms, muttering, “I don’t want you to go.”

Armie bit his bottom lip so hard he tasted blood.

***

It had been a day of difficult scenes, so Luca agreed to let them watch dailies at his place—just the three of them. Armie bought a huge cheese pizza because he knew that was what Tim liked best. They sat together on the couch, drinking wine and eating, while Luca pointed out specific moments that he adored.

The peach scene was certainly … something. Tim’s expressive face told a story just as clear as dialogue. Rapt, Armie watched but felt like he watched something private. Not that Tim had a long-standing, emotional relationship with the peach, no. Tim rarely hid anything from the camera, but this was … God, it was the sexiest thing Armie had ever seen on film—and it was just a guy and a peach.

Unlike in his dream, Tim (Elio?) came with his mouth shut. Armie wondered which mannerism was truly Tim and which was Elio. By the time they’d witnessed Elio’s breakdown, Armie’s head was a mess of _Tim-Elio-Armie-Oliver-me-you_ …

“Shit, I need a smoke.” Tim ran his hand through his hair and made his way to the open balcony door.

Armie stood to join him, but Luca stopped him with a hand on his arm. He leaned close and whispered, “You’ll let him down gently when it’s over, yes?”

Armie tilted his head in question. “What?”

“You and Timothee.”

“Luca, we’re not—”

Luca reciprocated his incredulous head tilt. 

“It’s not what you think,” Armie said.

“Whatever it is, I do not want anyone getting hurt.” He glanced toward the balcony where a cloud of smoke floated inside. “Although, I suspect _mio piccolo angelo_ might be the strongest among us, no?”

Armie sighed as Luca nodded toward the door.

“Go on,” he said. 

Once outside, Tim handed Armie his cigarette out of friendly habit. Armie took a hit and handed it back.

Tim asked, “What did Luca say?”

“Oh.” He leaned his palms on the iron ledge. “He’s just being mysterious and Italian.” 

Tim snorted and exhaled smoke. He nodded in understanding.

“You seemed really upset today.”

Tim elbowed him. “It’s called acting, Hammer, although I guess I was tired of being sticky.” 

“No more sex with fruit, huh?” 

He ground his cigarette into the ashtray and lit another. They stood together, smoking in silence, passing the cigarette back and forth. Behind them, a classical piano record played. Tim handed Armie the smoke, and Armie brought it to his lips, still damp from Tim’s mouth.

He almost choked when Tim said, “You say my name in your sleep,” before turning and going back inside.


	9. It Doesn't Mean Anything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one might hurt a little.

_“You say my name in your sleep.”_

Armie couldn’t get air into his lungs. Standing outside on Luca’s patio, he’d dropped the cigarette as soon as Tim had walked away. Now, he stood there trying to breathe—a life-long skill he had somehow forgotten. 

He spun on his heel and walked back inside, but Tim was gone. All that was left was Luca staring at him. 

“Where did he go?” Armie growled.

Luca shook his head. “And you said it’s not what I think?”

“It isn’t. Where—” He heard the door downstairs close and moved. More like ran. He almost tripped over his own feet across Luca’s living room and down the steps that would lead him outside to Tim. Banging through the door, Armie spotted his young costar ten feet ahead, hands shoved in his jeans pockets and head ducked. “Tim!” He took long, loping steps to reach him. 

Tim yelled, “Fuck, not now. I’m tired.”

Armie grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around. “Hey. Wh …”

Tim looked up at him and chewed the inside of his lip. It wasn’t so dark that Armie couldn’t read the impatient expression on his face, but it wasn’t bright enough for him to see the color of Tim’s eyes.

When Armie said absolutely nothing, Tim spoke. “What, man?” He shook his head. “I said I’m tired.”

Tim started walking again, so Armie followed. _Say something, you idiot._ He tried to lighten the mood with a quiet laugh. “Look, of course I say your name in my sleep. I’ve been spending every waking moment with you, dude.” 

Tim stopped suddenly and groaned. He pressed his palms against his eyes and bent forward at the waist. When he stood back up, Armie didn’t need to see the color of Tim’s eyes to know he was thoroughly pissed. The tense set of his shoulders and the curl of his fists told a story much louder than shouting.

There was no confusing it now. Tim was not Elio. Young Elio seemingly had no temper. He was a precocious, spoiled child, yes, but Elio never looked like he wanted to murder somebody.

“Jesus Christ, Armie, it’s the _way_ you say my name in your sleep.”

Armie put his hands on his hips, bracing himself. “And how do I say it?”

“Like you’re balls deep, man!” Tim screamed. He planted his fists against Armie’s chest and shoved so hard Armie fell back a few steps. “I am so fucking tired. I’m tired of Luca and Crema and Elio and … and you!” He stomped off toward home, but Armie grabbed his arm.

“Hey—”

He ducked when Tim swung at him—actually swung at him. It became a wrestling match of fists, arms, and elbows. They weren’t playing anymore. Armie had wrestled his costar so many times, but it had always been in jest. He recognized the difference between playfulness and wrath, and Tim was irate.

Armie told him to stop, but that only made Tim struggle harder until Armie had no choice but to use his superior size and strength to forcibly hold Tim’s wrists and pin him against a citrus tree.

“Stop, Tim. Stop. Please?” He had to stop. If he didn’t, Armie might embarrassingly melt into tears.

Weeks ago, this young man, this _kid_ , had immediately wormed his way into Armie’s heart. Not that he’d done so with evil intent; ever since that first piano lesson, Tim had shared his easy affection with Armie, and Armie had accepted it. He’d swallowed Tim’s attention like cool water in the desert until he was full. In that moment, though, Armie’s heart wanted to escape his chest and flee. God, he’d never intended this.

Love.

That’s what it was.

Stupid, stupid terrible love.

Armie had inched around the idea, wondered if it was true. He’d said he loved Tim in a friendly way. He’d said so many stupid things.

“I don’t know what’s real anymore.” Tim’s voice shook, which was when Armie finally realized his costar was not only pinned to a tree but also crying.

Armie released his wrists and scooped him into a hug. Tim’s wet face and open mouth pressed against the side of his neck as he shook with silent sobs. Armie held tightly and whispered, “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

He jerked when Tim’s lips closed against his skin and sucked.

The basest part of Armie’s brain screamed, _Fuck him. Take him to bed, and fuck him. Now, now, now._ And it would have been easy, in that moment, to drag Tim home and—as Liz had said—show him exactly how Armie felt. He could give Tim anything, whatever he wanted, all of it.

But Armie’s heart …

He pulled away and took Tim’s hand. “Let’s get you home.”

Tim wiped at his face with the back of his arm but nodded and followed where Armie led.

Inside Tim’s apartment, they stood facing each other in the foyer. In the overhead light, Tim’s pale skin was painted in splotches of tear-stained red. He sniffed. “Will you stay?”

Armie had to say yes. He waited in Tim’s unmade bed—the one that smelled of citrus, smoke, and night sweat—while Tim brushed his teeth. He turned off the bathroom light before entering the room, but Armie could still see his bare skin glowing in the darkness like a phosphorescent fish.

Tim slid in at Armie’s side in nothing but black boxer briefs and rested his cheek on Armie’s chest. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I’m really fucked up today.” 

“Me, too,” Armie said.

Tim apparently had not been lying when he said he was tired. He fell asleep in minutes, leaving Armie awake with his thoughts. Tim was a peaceful, warm weight in his arms. A familiar weight. And the voices screamed ...

_Coward! Coward! Selfish coward!_

Armie had spent so much time considering Oliver. Why had Oliver slept with Elio? Why had he given in, doomed them both to heartbreak? Weeks ago, he’d dubbed Oliver selfish, lacking in self-preservation. He’d wanted Elio, so he had taken; he’d wanted Elio, so he had also given. Given everything in exchange for a broken heart, but it had been worth it. Just like Mr. Perlman’s speech said, their summer affair had been a gift—fleeting joy in exchange for brokenness, but that moment. _That fucking moment._ It was worth a thousand broken hearts to feel a moment of euphoria with the one person who made you complete. 

Which was why Armie was a coward.

The whole time he kept claiming he was protecting Tim. He didn’t want to hurt Tim. He didn’t want Tim to regret a torrid affair with a married man. He didn’t want Tim ending up with a broken heart. It was all bull shit now.

Armie wasn’t protecting Tim anymore. He was protecting himself. 

***

Armie swatted at the finger that poked his forehead but missed. The poke returned, followed by a quiet chuckle. Eyes shut, Armie grabbed again and caught Tim’s hand in his own. “Cut it out,” he muttered. He inhaled and smelled coffee.

“Wake up, sleeping beauty.”

Armie cracked one eye open to find Tim, sun-soaked and sitting Indian style on the bed with a steaming mug of coffee in his hand. In a sweat shirt and shorts, half his dark hair stood up in disarray, but his eyes weren’t still puffy with sleep. Must have been up for a little while then.

“What time is it?” Armie asked.

“Around eight.” He leaned up on one knee and grabbed a second mug from the table by his bed. “Made it the way you like it.” Which meant super strong black: Armie style.

He sat up and welcomed the offered mug. “Thanks.”

Tim took a deep breath. “I’m sorry about last night. I sort of lost my fucking mind, man.” 

“No. It’s fine. It was an emotional day.”

“That’s not an excuse for attacking you. Elio’s all over my brain. I just …” He stuck his tongue out and bit the tip. Armie wasn’t even sure he knew he was doing it. “I guess I didn’t fully comprehend his stoicism. It’s like, all this shit happens in one summer. Big, grown up shit, and he only melts down once really—in the attic. Like, I would have been a mess. I am a mess, and I’m just acting.”

“He wasn’t stoic. He was strong, like you.” 

Tim shook his head and looked up—the patented Tim-thinks-you’re-full-of-shit-Hammer face. “Thank Christ you got cast for this, dude. No one else would put up with my tantrums.” 

“Stop it.”

“No, for real, I accused you of having sex dreams about me last night.”

Armie put his coffee down, heart aching in his chest. “I do have sex dreams about you.”

Tim’s entire face wrinkled. “What?” 

Survival. Fight or flight. Like an injured animal being chased through the woods. _Run, Hammer._ “Tim, they’re just dreams. Like I said, we’ve been spending so much time together in sexually charged situations. I’m a man without his wife for six weeks. My imagination is going to run away with me.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

Tim stared at him, mouth half-open. He looked like a statue. 

Armie gave his kneecap a squeeze. “Did I break you?”

He blinked. “N—” His voice cracked. “No.” He cleared his throat and backed off the bed, spilling a bit of coffee in the process. “You’re right. Doesn’t mean anything.” He shoved his hand through his hair, but Armie didn’t miss the way it shook. “I’m gonna go shower.” He disappeared.

As soon as the water started running, Armie bent forward on the bed and choked out a single sob. He sucked in a breath and fought the tears like a boxer fights his opponent. It was done, over, but he sat there, haunted by the realization: _Oliver was a better man than you._


	10. I Love Him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might have fudged with time lines, but it’s fiction and had to work LIKE THIS haaaa …

Later that day, it was like Armie hadn’t broken Tim into a hundred million pieces. In fact, Tim was his cheerful, silly self. He spent time teasing Esther and Victoire and smiling at everyone—everyone. He was a bundle of joy, bouncing on his toes between takes.

That night, Elio and Oliver bemoaned wasted time in the garden, and Tim was sweet and attentive. His palms rubbed up and down Armie’s thighs without thought. There was not an ounce of the anger Armie had seen the night before or the panicked backpedaling of that morning. There was nothing but relaxed, perhaps indifferent, affection.

When Luca spoke, Tim paid attention. Armie watched his moonlit silhouette and tried not to be sick. _It’s over, it’s done. He’s already moved on, Hammer. Look at him. Your glowing boy._

It continued, Tim’s infuriating good mood. The cast and crew traveled to Bergamo to shoot the final scenes of Elio and Oliver together. As the sun set, he and Tim did shots of grappa in a local bar off a side street at Luca’s coaxing. The characters were quite drunk, so they should have a buzz, too. The buzz only made Armie grabbier with Tim as they danced down an alley. When Tim kissed him, it was hard to stop, but the show had to go on.

Then, the “kiss of a lifetime.” Tim seemed drunker than he really was, but he was an actor, after all. It had been weeks since Armie had thought of himself as such. He’d stopped acting ages ago. He didn’t act in Bergamo, either.

When Tim looked up at him with Elio’s hazy adulation, Armie pretended it was all for him. He devoured Tim’s mouth. He kissed and kissed until Luca called cut and maybe kissed some more. After four takes, Tim’s mouth was starting to turn red. While the lighting was reset, he poked at his wet lips and never once looked at Armie, whereas Armie stared. These were his last scenes, his last moments as Oliver. He would live them, feel them. By the eighth take, he panted into Tim’s mouth and held him with a grip that twenty men could not break.

Tim was the one who eventually pulled away. He smiled up at Armie and said, “Goose,” as though that explained everything.

***

“It’s not like you need to come home right away,” Liz said.

Armie stood on Luca’s balcony smoking. Inside, everyone drank and danced. It was finished. He was finished. They were celebrating Oliver’s wrap, and all Armie wanted was a time machine so he could start all over. 

“Liz, there’s no reason for me to stay.”

“Well, you sound like shit, my love. What, did Luca fire you your last day?”

Quite the contrary. Earlier, Luca had practically bowed at his feet. That morning shot in the hotel in Bergamo—the one where Oliver’s face summed up about fifty different emotions? Yeah, Luca claimed it was the most beautiful thing Armie had ever done. Maybe because the great Armie Hammer hadn’t been acting. Again, he’d been _living_ , saying goodbye to Tim and all they had or didn’t have or whatever the fuck was left.

Then, the train station. Tim had shocked him by grabbing onto the back of his shirt and extending their embrace. Armie had almost started blubbering. He still felt an ache in his chest, a festering misery that he was certain would haunt him for months. Maybe longer.

“Hey! _Le muvi star!”_ Tim sauntered up and leaned his elbows on the balcony at Armie’s side. “Is that Elizabeth?” He grabbed the phone without asking. “Liz!” The smile never left Tim’s face as he chatted enthusiastically with Armie’s wife. He used hand gestures as if she could see him. Armie wanted to grab Tim’s flapping fingers and kiss each one, but he didn’t. That was all over now.

“Of course, I’ll come visit,” Tim said. “No, I don’t know when. Yes, Harper can braid my hair. I have to grow it out actually.” He wandered further down the balcony. His laughter echoed into the street below, bounced back, and smacked Armie in the face just as Luca arrived at his side.

“What are you doing out here?” the director asked, one hand on Armie’s shoulder. “It’s your party. Everyone is going to miss you, _Americano_.” 

Armie smiled and looked down. “I’m going to miss everyone, too.”

“You were perfect. I knew you would be. My Oliver.” He lifted a glass of wine in an unreciprocated toast. “And …” He glanced right. “My Elio. I knew how beautiful you would be. Together. Two halves of a whole, yes? _Cor cordium_.”

Armie’s eyes burned, and he looked away before Luca saw him crying.

Of course, Luca saw everything. He clicked his tongue. “It’s my fault,” he whispered. “Everything between you is my fault, but I will not feel guilty, Armie. The pain is worth the beauty, yes?”

Armie blinked the tears away and nodded. “I love him.” 

Luca pat him on the back. “And you always will.”

Down the balcony, Tim laughed and sprawled back into a chair, still talking to Liz. In the course of mere days, he had moved on. Maybe it was the ease of youth that allowed him to drop all feelings for Armie and look toward the next project.

Meanwhile, Armie would board a plane in the morning and go home, back to life before _Call Me By Your Name_. He would work on movies and be a good husband to his wife. He would await the promotional tour, muscle through it, and say goodbye to Tim all over again because they were actors and that was what they did.

He would become a distant friend, eventually forgotten. Just some kid named Timothee Chalamet. Someone Armie used to know.

***

_Several months later …_

On the kitchen counter, Armie cut the crust off a peanut butter sandwich before handing it to a hungry Harper. She grinned, grabbed her paper plate, and took off for the living room where cartoons waited. 

His phone buzzed. Armie recognized the name obviously, but he hadn’t seen it in a while. He’d be damned if he admitted to the way a simple conglomeration of letters made his throat close up.

He coughed. Twice. “Liz, Tim’s FaceTiming us,” he called. The phone date had been planned via text, but Armie still wasn’t prepared—would possibly never be prepared to deal with the emotional baggage he’d been lugging around since Crema. 

His wife waddled into the kitchen in slippers, huge pregnant belly swinging back and forth. She put her arm around his waist before Armie accepted the call. Nervously, he answered, and Tim’s pale, smiling face hopped onto the screen.

Liz shrieked. “Oh, my God, your hair! You look hot as fuck!”

Tim’s nose wrinkled, and he shook his head. “There is no way you’ve been drinking.” 

“Hammer.” She slapped his chest. “Tell the kid his hair looks hot.”

“It’s so long,” Armie said. “Must be driving you insane.” Truthfully, the lengthy locks were driving Armie insane. Or, more accurately, his dick. Tim had always been pretty obviously, but with shaggy curls, he was downright edible. He had been sexy as Elio, but he was going to fucking slay in _Lady Bird_.

“I don’t know.” Tim brushed fingers through the front of his wild mop. “I kind of like it. Makes it easy to hide my face in crowds. Not that anyone knows who I am.” He shrugged.

“They will soon, babe,” Liz said. “Everyone will once they see this movie. But hey, I’m going to let you and Hammer catch up. Love you!”

“Love you.” Tim smiled before Liz disappeared. Even though they were across a country, Armie's fingers tingled as though Tim was right next to him, smelling and tasting like peaches and cream.

“I do like the hair,” Armie said.

“Thanks.” He rested his chin in the upturned palm of his hand. “Any updates on Hammer baby, part deux?”

“The pregnancy’s going fine. Easy, according to Liz. Kid will be here any second.”

“Awesome.” He nodded. “I miss you.”

Armie’s face warmed up. “I miss you, too.”

They stared at each other the way they had so many times in Italy.

“So …” Armie looked away. “Ready for Sundance?”

Tim chewed his bottom lip. “What if they hate it?”

“Jesus, Tim, no one’s going to hate it.” 

“I’ve totally been obsessing over some scenes. Like maybe I should have reined it in a little, you know? Fuck. Honestly, dude, I’ve been pretty much a disaster lately. New York just … doesn’t feel like home right now.” He poked at something off-screen, probably a pack of cigarettes on his desk. “Like I left something in Crema.”

Armie closed his eyes. _No,_ I _left_ you _in Crema._ They’d shared little more than a hug and cursory goodbye before Armie had gone to the airport months before.

“God, I’m being so fucking maudlin.” Tim chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “Anyway, so Sundance, yeah. What are you wearing?”

Armie snorted. “You’re serious? Well, a sling because I busted my arm, but I told you that already. Other than that, clothes, man. I’m wearing clothes.”

Tim laughed in response. “Clothes. Got it.”

“Seriously, are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just all the build up. I’m ready for the movie to be out there, you know? I’m sick of waiting. It’ll be good to have you with me, man. I don’t think I could deal with all these film festivals and interviews and shit without you.”

“I’ll try to do a lot of the talking.” 

“Promise?” Tim chewed his lip some more.

“Promise. It’s going to be great. They’re going to throw awards at you.”

Across the country, far away in New York, Tim rolled his eyes.

*** 

And it began. With January came a new Hammer baby—Ford—followed by the Sundance Film Festival. Armie tried not to literally run toward Tim when he saw him at their hotel, but Tim sort of ran anyway. Armie scooped him up with his one good arm, Tim’s feet a foot off the ground when they hugged.

After the movie premiered, the standing ovation made Tim’s eyes glisten. He looked at Armie in awe, especially when the critics dubbed him the number one Oscar contender of the year. Little Timothee Chalamet—the beautiful no name was about to make it big.

For months, they traveled together and spent hours upon hours fielding questions. They stayed in hotels, watched bad TV, and ate crappy food in bed. They laughed and talked about big things, little things, nothings, just like they had during those early days in Crema. The only thing they never talked about: Tim’s personal life. He could have been dating someone—a boy, a girl—but Armie didn’t want to know.

Blessedly, the dreams left him be. He hadn’t actually done much dreaming at all since Crema, until that one morning …

***

“Hey. What are you doing?” Armie asks.

Tim’s face disappears in shadow when he turns away from the rising sun. “Hm? Nothing.”

“Why aren’t you in bed?”

He moves in and out of focus. One second, his hair is short like in Crema. The next, it’s longer, curled, tickling the back of his neck.

Armie blinks. “Come back,” he says.

Tim’s face is still in shadow, but he tilts his head just enough for Armie to make out the cliff-edge of his cheekbone. “Miss me?”

“Always.” Armie lifts his arm and extends his hand in the air, beckoning Tim ever closer.

***

“Armie.”

Louder.

“Armie! Dude!”

He wakes with a start to find a disheveled, panicked-looking Timothee Chalamet pinned beneath him in a foreign bed. He’s fully dressed in a dark sweater and skinny jeans. His hair, long, is a mess of curls, presumably because Armie—in a deep sleep stupor—has been tugging at it. He’s breathless, red in the face, shoving at Armie’s shoulders.

“What the fuck?” Armie sputters.

“I think you were dreaming. I came to wake you up. You wrestled me into bed, and …” If possible, Tim’s pale cheeks turn redder, but he looks like he’s trying to smile, trying to laugh it off.

***

“Um, so the junket starts in an hour. Thought you might want to get breakfast or something?” 

***

_I love you. I love you. I’m so in love with you, and it kills me more and more every day._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back in the present!!! Gotta think about the rating for the next chapter. Might have to change it to explicit. Watch out!


	11. Oh, My God

Something has to give, and it happens in New York of all places—Tim’s hometown, where he’s supposed to feel confident and safe. Instead, they do an awkward interview first thing that morning in which Armie can’t stop staring. He dreams with his eyes open now, or maybe it’s _daydreaming_ , about Tim’s mouth, his voice, the way his face houses sixteen emotions at once. Armie daydreams so much that morning that Tim stops talking at one point to sputter, “Dude, is there something on my face?”

The New York Film Festival is that evening. Armie’s suit hangs in the closet of his hotel room, waiting. He knocks once on the adjoining door that connects his room to Tim’s before saying his costar’s name and walking inside.

Tim looks up, startled, and no wonder. He sits on the floor, curled up between the mini fridge and wall, face wet with tears, reading some magazine.

Armie goes into protective mode immediately. It only takes two huge steps and a quick crouch for him to be right in Tim’s space, reaching for his cheeks. Armie wipes tears away with his thumbs, and Tim doesn’t fight him. He also doesn’t speak. “Hey, what’s going on?” Armie asks.

Tim sniffs and shakes his head. “I don’t know what you’re doing, man. Is this … did Luca tell you to do this? Part of promo for the film?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” 

Tim flips the magazine closed and holds it up.

Armie stares at his own face on the cover of _Out Magazine_. “I’m … confused.” 

Tim sniffs before angrily turning pages. The magazine just about rips beneath the force of his ire. His green eyes squint and widen before he reads, “'I think I fall more and more in love with Tim every time I see him.'” He slams the magazine shut before throwing it across the room. “Why did you say that?”

Jesus, of course it’s true, but he doesn’t remember saying it. He did that interview months ago and remembers feeling comfortable. Too comfortable, apparently.

In response to his silence, Tim buries his hands in his hair and hides his face against his bent knees. “Fuck,” he mutters, voice muffled by his jeans. “And I was doing so fucking well."

Armie doesn’t speak, because he doesn’t know what to say.

“You told me in Crema that it didn’t mean anything—that we don’t mean anything—and that was fine, all right?” Tim rolls his eyes. “Or I pretended it was fine.” His face scrunches up for a second. “Shit, they _should_ give me an Oscar. I’ve been fine for months. And all the promo has been great, because I get to spend time with you, even if you don’t …” His bottom lip trembles, so he bites it. “You say things like that to a magazine … Why? Why can’t you just let this Elio and Oliver shit go, man?”

Armie still isn’t sure what’s going on in Tim’s head, but he knows Tim feels bad, so he says the most basic, safe thing he can: “I’m not trying to hurt you. I never meant to hurt you.”

“I know! But, fuck …” He chokes on a breath. “You hurt me all the time.” He cries in earnest now—big, shuddering sobs.

Armie grabs him by the shoulders and forces him into a hug, even as Tim shoves against him. Even as Tim shakes his head back and forth before burying his face against Armie’s neck. They huddle together on the floor, limbs tangled, as Tim vomits emotion all over him. 

“God, what did I do?” he whispers to himself.

Tim’s fingers dig into his upper back.

“I’ve loved you since day one,” Armie confesses. “I’ve wanted you since then. I dreamt of you constantly, even in front of Liz. She saw how I felt and told me to go for it—to go for you—but I didn’t want to be some Hollywood mistake you made, some fling who broke your heart. But, God, I want you. Always.” He rubs his cheek against the top of Tim’s head and holds him tighter. “I thought I was protecting you, but I think I was just protecting myself. I couldn’t handle the idea of you moving on, forgetting about me, so—”

“Wait.” Tim pulls back. 

Armie lets him go begrudgingly, but at least he can look down into Tim’s handsome face, still tear-streaked but lovely as ever.

“Liz said … what?”

“She said it was okay for us to be together, but I wussed out, Tim. I’m scared of how much I love you. I’m not Oliver. I can’t imagine touching you and letting you go—having you and then watching you leave. Don’t you—”

Tim leans up on his knees and covers Armie’s mouth with his hand. “Shut. Up. Liz … you … You have an open marriage?” he practically shrieks.

Armie nods. “Yeah. We're allowed to sleep with other people.” 

“Oh, my God.” Tim wheezes a breath in and out before putting his hand on his chest. He looks to be fighting for air.

“Tim, breathe!”

“Oh … my God … I’m going to … kill you.”

“Just breathe, Tim. Please.”

“We could have been fucking for the past _year?”_ He puts his hands on his head and actually roars before pouncing like a hungry lion.

Armie catches his full weight but ends up crushed beneath him on the hotel room floor, wedged against the bottom of the bed. He doesn’t have time to respond before Tim’s mouth is on his, tongue hot and insistent. Armie groans and opens wide, allowing Tim to devour his lips. Tim’s hands pull on Armie’s t-shirt like he wants to tear it apart.

“Wait, wait …” Armie turns his head and holds Tim at a distance with his hand on his neck. “Is this what you want?”

“I’ve been in love with you since day one, too, you fucking idiot.”

Armie has time to laugh, just once, before Tim’s mouth is on him again. It starts like one of their old, friendly wrestling matches. Armie lurches left with his hands on Tim’s thighs, and even though one of Tim’s long legs _thwacks_ into the mini fridge, no one cares. He grabs Tim’s ass and rolls their hips together, and Tim makes a sound somewhere between a whimper and a growl.

“Christ, make that noise again,” Armie huffs.

Tim smiles. “Make me make that noise again.”

“You’re not going to know up from down once I'm done with you.” He lifts up on one knee, and before Tim can protest, Armie wraps his arms around his waist and stands.

Tim lands on the bed with a bounce, and Armie lays his whole body on top of him—crushing him, but just a little. 

“I love how you make me feel small,” Tim says. “No one’s ever done that before.”

Armie rips his shirt off over his head and looks down at Tim. “Why do you have on so many clothes?”

“I dunno.” He lifts an eyebrow. “Why do I have on so many clothes?”

“Little minx.” Armie pushes his thumb against Tim’s bottom lip, forcing his mouth open, and licks inside.

Not only does Tim have on a jacket but a t-shirt, too, both of which Armie make quick work of. He presses his palm to the front of Tim’s jeans and rubs the hard length of him. Tim’s head leans back, and he breathes out a single word: “Fuck.”

“Gorgeous. God, you’re so fucking gorgeous.” He wraps a handful of Tim’s shaggy hair in his fist and pulls, and Tim’s mouth falls open on a groan. “Keep this hair. You look like a goddamn European prince.”

Tim chuckles while rubbing himself shamelessly against Armie’s palm. “Stop talking.”

Knowing photographers will surround them in a matter of hours, Armie does not suck a bruise onto the side of Tim’s neck—but he does go for right below his collarbone. He sucks hard until Tim sort of shoves, sort of pulls at his shoulders. He sucks until he swears he can taste sweet orange and hear the sound of Italian cicadas.

Tim says, “Ow,” but when Armie finally lifts his head, Tim’s mouth is wide open, eyes squeezed shut in pleasure. His chest rises and falls in rapid waves.

_This. This is everything._

Tim is the one who gets both their pants off, but the moment feels nothing like that far away night in Crema. There aren’t cameras around. They aren’t carefully arranged for cinematographic ease. No, they’re an absolute mess of arms and legs and roving fingers and mouths.

Tim feels so good in his arms. For a guy who looks pointy in life, he is soft, pliant, and warm. They rutt slowly, cocks pressed together, until they’re both coated in a layer of sticky sweat.

“Will you fuck me?” Tim whispers in his ear.

Armie almost dies, but first … “Have you done this before, with a guy?”

Tim grins. “Jesus, Hammer, I went to LaGuardia High School.”

Armie grabs Tim’s waist and tickles—for old time’s sake. He’s way wigglier nude. “Fine. Then, I am going to fuck the hell out of you.” 

Tim bats Armie’s tickling fingers away. “Promises, promises.”

The playful mood shifts, though, once Tim gets lube and condoms. No one laughs. No one even smiles. They stare at each other, Tim on his back down the center of the bed with Armie knelt between his spread thighs, looming over him. 

“You look nervous.” Tim cups his cheek.

“Are you real?”

Tim’s brow furrows.

“I’ve dreamt about this so many times, but you’re always gone when I wake up.”

Tim leans on his elbows and kisses his chin. “I’m real. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Armie works him open slowly—achingly so. He starts with one finger, gaze never once leaving Tim’s face. With the addition of a second finger, Tim winces, so Armie kisses his cheeks and whispers, “I love you,” over and over until his fingers scissor easily in and out. Between them, Tim’s cock drips.

“More,” he whimpers.

Armie hesitates on adding the third finger but that’s only because, quite suddenly, he is reminded of Tim’s small frame. He has one of Tim’s legs up over his shoulder, and he kisses the soft skin of his inner thigh—a thigh his palm fits easily across. Arching the way he does, Tim’s ribs are extra obvious, and his mouth … lush but small. Armie feels like a giant.

“Hey.” Tim’s wrecked voice. “Where’d you go?”

“I feel like I’m going to break you.”

“You won’t. Please, you won’t. I love you …” He babbles, eyes hazy with lust.

As soon as he eventually pushes inside, Armie is thankful for the condom or he would have come immediately. The expected tightness is breathtaking, but more so is the guttural moan his thrust wrenches from Tim’s chest.

Armie brushes hair back from Tim’s face. “My God, you’re perfect.”

Tim wraps his legs around Armie’s waist and scratches at his back until Armie keeps moving.

They make love slowly with their noses pressed together, breathing into each other’s mouths. Occasionally, they kiss, but mostly, they cling and move as one body, one heart, one soul.

“I’ll never stop wanting you,” Armie whispers.

Tim nods, his nose pressed to Armie’s cheek. 

Tim comes first with no warning. One moment, he’s sucking Armie’s bottom lip; the next, his mouth drops open and he comes with a shout they probably heard in Crema.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh …” Armie’s whole body tingles with his release. His elbows go out from under him, and he nuzzles his face against Tim’s neck before sucking his earlobe.

Tim twitches. “Ah, no,” he mutters. “Too much.” He laughs through his nose and hugs Armie close. 

They say no more, and neither man moves. Armie is content to never move again, honestly. He isn’t sure his legs could hold him anyway.

Maybe he dozes, maybe not. Maybe time does strange things when we’re in love.

He wakes to someone saying, “Timothee.”

He opens one eye and finds Tim looking at him, still half-crushed beneath Armie’s big body. Tim smiles. He says, “Timothee” again.

Armie smiles and says his own name back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed The Sex!! Expect a fluffy epilogue next week!!


	12. Everyone is Going to Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens after The Sex? The boys attend the New York Film Festival. Plus, a fluffy epilogue :)

They shower together later and get all dressed up. Tim wears some striped gray suit that makes him look older, along with a tie. Because Tim rarely wears ties, Armie can’t help but grab it and pull him close for a kiss. He kisses him so much that Tim has to redo his hair, which isn’t any kind of travesty because Armie loves watching Tim do his hair. He loves watching Tim do anything really, and now, he can say it.

During the photo call, Armie can’t help himself. He’s all over Tim. He’s hugging him, wrestling him, in front of all the photographers. He’s nuzzling his nose in Tim’s hair until Tim laughs and actually tries to escape—but it’s no use. Armie pulls him right back in for another round of hugs.

He assumes everyone thinks he’s drunk, but not Luca. Luca watches from ten feet away, smiling. Armie has never seen Luca look quite this happy, and Armie thinks the crazy Italian must _know_ just like he’s known everything from the start.

Afterward, in a back hallway, Tim absently pokes at the mouth-shaped bruise beneath his collarbone, hidden by his suit. “You’re shameless,” he laughs.

Armie pins him against the nearest wall. “I just need to touch my boyfriend.” He shoves his huge hands under Tim’s suit coat and runs his fingers down his ribs.

“Everyone’s going to know.” Tim’s seriousness is belied by the hitch in his breath. 

“Let them. Who fucking cares?” Like earlier, he sucks Tim’s earlobe. This time, Tim doesn’t stop him.

Tim is so distracted during the Q&A that he literally falls out of a chair. Armie laughs harder than he has in months. It’s been a long time since he’s felt this happy, this free. He can’t wait to tell Liz—but later. For now, it’s just Tim and Armie, Armie and Tim. With a delighted Luca in the background.

***

_March 5, 2018. Sometime after midnight …_

Armie slowly surfaces from a sex-satisfied slumber to the sound of whispered voices. Oh, right, they left the TV on. Tim’s been so stressed lately, what with all the award shows, he doesn’t sleep as well as he used to. In fact, he’s all caught up on his B-horror films, since they play all night on the SyFy Channel.

He blinks his eyes open and looks up. Tim is elevated with a couple pillows behind his back, glowing cell phone in his hand. He’s scrolling through something while Liz—beautiful Liz—snores softly with her face on his arm. Armie reaches across Tim and tucks a piece of her chestnut hair behind her ear.

“I thought we said no cell phones in bed,” Armie whispers.

Tim puts the phone down. “Sorry, sorry. I just can’t believe I was at the Oscars tonight.”

Armie rubs his face against Tim’s shoulder before kissing the bare skin. “You should have won. Fucking Oldman.”

“Hey, I like Gary. He’s nice.” He slides down, careful not to jolt Liz, so that he and Armie are eye-to-eye. “I felt you staring at me on the red carpet.”

“Shit, did you see you tonight? You looked like a mythical creature. A unicorn in Berluti.”

Tim snorts—quietly. “Whatever. You showed up in head-to-toe velvet. I wanted to climb you like a tree, fucker.”

“And I would have let you.” Armie pulls him close with a hand on the back of his head and kisses him wet and slow.

When he pulls away, Tim’s lips glisten. “I can’t believe you gave me a blow job at the after party. Thank God Liz pulled interference.”

“Babe, I give you blow jobs whenever I can.” He kisses down the side of Tim’s neck as Tim breathes, “Noted,” on a strained sigh.

“Hey, Hammer,” Liz grumbles. “Stop hogging him.” She moves, pressing her breasts against Tim’s back. Armie watches one of her hands disappear beneath the sheets, and a second later, Tim’s mouth opens and his head tilts back. He reaches his hand behind him and pulls her into an open-mouthed kiss by her hair.

Armie loves this. He loves them. He knows award season is ending. He won’t be able to see Tim quite as much, but as they agreed, months prior, what they have isn’t relegated to a film. Elio and Oliver might exist within the bounds of _Call Me By Your Name_ , but they don’t. They are real—not fragments of dreams … although Armie does still dream sometimes. He has so many more choice images to work with now that Tim is not only his best friend but lover, too, a damn revelation in his marriage bed. Tim is usually even more insatiable than Armie, in fact, an enigmatic fey creature brimming with enthusiasm and want.

He gives himself to Armie and Liz with equal abandon. That said, Tim has only ever called Armie by his own name. It’s the only thing they keep secret from Liz.

Armie often reminds himself how lucky he is.

“Hey,” Tim pants. “You just going to lay there and watch, or what?”

“I might,” he says, but he doesn’t. He reaches forward the squeezes Tim’s hips while Liz works him under the sheets. He licks his young lover’s Adam’s apple and then sucks at the base of his jaw.

Armie watches Liz nibble the hell out of Tim’s bottom lip. She says, “Has anyone ever said that you taste like a Dreamcicle?”

Tim snort-laughs, as does Armie, who said the exact same thing a million years ago in another life back when he barely knew a kid named Timothee Chalamet. God, who had he even been before that piano lesson? No matter. He’s still Armie Hammer, married to a brilliant, beautiful woman with two wonderful kids. He’s also the adoring boyfriend of a history-making Oscar nominee.

He’s not Oliver, though, and Tim isn’t Elio. Honestly, Armie barely gives _them_ any thought as of late, partially because it panics him to think he and Tim could have ended up that way—apart and forever broken. More so, he doesn’t think of them because they are his past, and Armie doesn’t like looking back when there’s so much to look forward to.

He does owe them, those fictional boys in Italy; he knows this. They were the beginning, but somehow, through devotion and dumb luck, that magical summer has not ended. Will never end if he has any say.

Tim moans in their hot, crowded hotel bed, bringing Armie back to the moment at hand. Liz has him close; Armie knows Tim’s face well enough by now to know when he’s about to come. When he does, both Armie and Liz carry him through it with soft whispers and softer caresses.

Liz gets up to pee, and Tim rolls over and presses himself against Armie’s side. Armie’s arms go around him immediately, and he kisses all over his forehead.

Tim is very cuddly after sex. “Love you,” he mutters, but he’s already half asleep. He deserves a good twelve hours after the couple months he’s spent in the spotlight.

“Love you, too. Always.” And he means it. 

However, Armie never meant to meet a beautiful boy in Italy, and he never meant to practically shatter his own heart by hiding from that beautiful boy.

His mind goes back to the film for just a moment: _Is it better to speak or die?_  

Speak.

(Speak, speak, speak.)

“Love you,” Armie says again, but Tim, fast asleep, doesn’t respond. He’ll tell him again tomorrow. And the day after that. The day after that. Oh, and he’ll send Luca a bottle of his favorite scotch with a note: _Thank you._

 __ __Yeah, Armie doesn’t dream as much anymore. But only because all his dreams came true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end. Thank you thank you THANK YOU to everyone who followed along on this journey. Since January, the CMBYN fandom has been everything to me. It was so much fun to write this first Charmie fan fic. Your support has meant so much! Here's to Armie and Timothee; may their cuteness brighten even the darkest of days xoxo

**Author's Note:**

> Come play with me on [Tumblr](http://saradobiebauer.tumblr.com/)! I'm ridiculously in love with Timmy over there.


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